For Love And Country
by Nighthawk5
Summary: A bird will always break formation to save a friend, no matter what the cost... when there is a mishap on a CIA recon op, Mac senses something wrong.
1. PROLOGUE: Situation

"For Love And Country"

Disclaimer: he he he *insane laughs* I am CRAZY!!! (And that is my excuse…)

Spoilers: If you don't know who Harm, Mac, Webb and AJ are, stop reading now. Yeah, like, you'd have to have watched JAG to get it… *sniggers* Post Season 8, into Season 9, and yes, *sighs* the Paraguay disaster did happen. (Alter ego 1: "Shut up, we're in denial here!" *pauses* "Wait a minute, I am NOT in denial.")

Genre: Action/Adventure/Romance/Angst maybe… *shrugs* will morph genres.

Summary: My scheming to get H&M to sort things out, for better or worse (as they say). Probably H/M eventually, but right now I'm playing with the Mac/Webb thing. Would make a kick ass season finale if you ask me… tonnes of suspense, action, post-war zones, maybe torture… all the good stuff. *grins* And maybe even some shippery action (rather than procrastination, as the JAG writers practise…) at the end.

While working as a pilot for the CIA, a high-profile mole inside the agency and close to Harm betrays him to the enemy. The whispery gossip of the intelligence world manages to reach Mac's desk at JAG. When she learns of his capture, she petitions for a rescue op. When Webb is assigned to lead the op, she presses him to let her join in. Soon she's in over her head, searching for her best friend in the midst of an age old battle in a war torn country, with its own unique sense of wild, untame beauty and national identity. 

*           *           *           *           *           *

"PROLOGUE: Situation" 

US AIR FORCE BASE

SAUDI ARABIA

2000 HOURS ZULU

"Are you ready Sir?" ex-USAF Flight Lieutenant, William Graham a.k.a "Shakespeare" grinned at the former USN Lieutenant Commander Harmon Rabb.

"Hell yeah," Rabb returned the grin knowingly.

They were sitting side by side in the cockpit of a recon aircraft specially fitted to fly CIA and intelligence ops. The tech crew in the back made themselves busy at their workstations, while the two pilots up front finished their pre-flight checks.

"You do the honours," Harm suggested, gesturing to the radio.

Graham nodded in reply over the noise of the engines.

"ATC, this is Dark Rider 144, requesting clearance for take off."

The frequency crackled with static for a moment before the Air Traffic Controller's voice was transmitted clearly, "No can do Dark Rider, you'll just have to wait. I've got a C-130 on final and two F-15's in the cue."

"Roger that ATC."

"You might want to hang around for the Eagles, rumour has it they'll be putting on a fireworks show for us."

"Some occasion ATC?"

"The bone domes like to think we've won the war."

"Roger that. Out."

Bill Graham exchanged another brief smile with his friend before staring out of the multi-section cockpit windows in anticipation of the dump and burn. Moments later, a brilliant blaze lit the night sky and two F-15's were lost in a dizzying dance above their heads.

  
*           *           *           *           *           *

'JIHAD BISMILLAH' HQ

SOMEWHERE IN AFGHANISTAN

2230 HOURS ZULU

A figure stood enveloped in shadows, barking orders in Dari at a small team of men.

"Have you got the weapon for intercept?"

"Yes Sir," one of the men answered, shouldering a surface-to-air missile launcher. 

"The weapons for ground defence?"

The men chorused in confirmation.

"The point and time of intercept?"

"Yes Sir," Attah Mohammed answered. He was the designated leader of the group and clearly had authority over the other members.

"May I remind you that you only have one chance to prevent those photos making it back to the intelligence world," the shadowy man yelled, "As our American friends put it: failure is not an option."

They all shared a laugh at the expense of American axioms, then melted into the darkness of the Afghan night.

*           *           *           *           *           *

UNKNOWN GEOGRAPHICAL LOCATION

AFGHANISTAN

2330 HOURS ZULU

The radio call was scrambled and precise.

"Are you in position?" a voice asked in Afghan Persian.

"Yes, Praise to God," came the reply.

*           *           *           *           *           *           

UNKNOWN GEOGRAPHICAL LOCATION

AFGHANISTAN

2300 HOURS ZULU

The recon aircraft flew slowly over the north-west mountainous region of the sleeping country.

"You ready to take some photos?" Rabb grinned at Graham.

"Sure… a scenic reminder," he laughed.

*           *           *           *           *           *

UNKNOWN GEOGRAPHICAL LOCATION

AFGHANISTAN

2329 HOURS ZULU

The radical soldier poised the surface-to-air missile, aiming it somewhere into the heavens. The stars shone clearly in Afghanistan's dark night.

The low hum of an aircraft could be heard overhead. Its lights were off, but the entire contingent knew exactly when it would be almost directly above them.

The guerrilla with the missile searched the sky with his eyes. Catching sight of what he was looking for, he paused before firing the weaponry at the dark silhouette of an aircraft.

*           *           *           *           *           *

UNKNOWN GEOGRAPHICAL LOCATION

AFGHANISTAN

2330 HOURS ZULU

"What in the name of Christ was that?" Rabb asked his co-pilot. 

He was met with no response. He turned to Graham, finding him unconscious.

"Nightfriend?" he said over the radio, "Fuck pleasantries, the monkey's your uncle. I repeat, the monkey is your uncle. We've been hit with something explosive."

"Dark Rider, I need to confirm, the monkey is my uncle?"

"Yeah, its urgent, we've been shot down."

"What is your position?"

Harm relayed their current position and speed to the CIA's "man on the ground" a.k.a Nightfriend, "We're just south of Santa's helpers at the North Pole. Slightly west of the toy factory. There's a hot 89 petalled rose at 74am and a cold 171.5 legged chair asleep at 154pm. Speed, average of my birthday and yours."

"Roger that, I'll try and get some help out there Dark Rider."

"Thanks Nightfriend…"

The communications system failed.

"Dark rider, do you copy me dark rider?"

Static greeted both men, then,  "Loud and clear, Nightfriend."

"KEEP IN RADIO CONTACT, DO NOT…"

The transmission failed once again. For a moment there was silence.

'Another addition to the collection of the planes I've crashed,' Harm thought to himself, trying his damnedest to regain control of the crippled aircraft, 'Oh shit, this one's going to be the last…' The thought came suddenly; he had little time to suppress it.

The rear end of the fuselage had been maimed by the hit, and since both of the aircrafts dual engines had failed. All the ridiculous stories about the aerodynamics of aircraft allowing them to glide safely to a landing were becoming more and more ludicrous in his mind. The metal bird had the gliding ability of a large brick.

With those thoughts in mind, he tried the radio one last time. He spoke calmly, still attempting to pull out of the aircraft's dangerous dive-bomb efforts, "Nightfriend," he began, "Do me a favour would you? Tell Sarah I love her."

The radio cut out again and he heard nothing but static for several moments. In the darkness, he'd become disorientated. It was hard to tell the sky from the ground, the only difference being the sky was glistening with billions of tiny, glowing stars.

Nightfriend's voice interrupted the aircraft's suicide attempts, "Roger that Dark Rider."

Then there was silence. 

*           *           *           *           *           *

MAC'S APARTMENT

GEORGETOWN

2330 HOURS ZULU

While the sunset gently filtered through her window casting a romantic rose light across the room, Sarah Mackenzie sat up suddenly and gasped. She slid out of bed, hurried into the kitchen, grabbing the phone and calling his cell.

There was no answer.

She called his apartment.

There was no answer.

She grasped the kitchen counter with both hands as the phone fell to the floor. The noise was enough to extract Clayton Webb from her bedroom. The spook stopped at the end of the hallway, watching her leaning her head against the bench and tremble.

"What's wrong Mac?" he asked her nervously, not wanting to hear the answer.

"He's…" her voice cracked as she choked back a sob, "He's going."

"You mean he's gone?" Clay corrected her with a question.

"No, he's fading, but he's not gone," she shivered, "Not yet."

For one of the first times in his life, Clayton Webb didn't know what to say.

*           *           *           *           *           *

    A/N: Oooh, *gasps*… how very interesting.                 


	2. CHAPTER1:Geese And Flying In Formation

"CHAPTER ONE: Of Geese And Flying In Formation"

*           *            *            *            *

When a goose gets sick or is wounded by a gunshot and falls out of formation, two other geese break formation and follow it down, to help protect it. They stay with it until it is able to fly, or until it is dead.

*           *            *            *            *

Mac's POV

MAC'S APARTMENT

GEORGETOWN 

0500 HOURS ZULU

I sat on my couch, my knees tucked beneath my legs, staring at Clay. He was on the phone again, waging Round Five of an all-day battle with the higher powers for me.

"I don't CARE about security clearance damnit. He's a friend. Now tell me where Rabb is Catherine, last I heard, he was undercover with you," Clay shouted into the odd looking contraption he's always trying to pass of for a cell phone.

"Undercover with her in more ways than one," I murmured to myself before I had a chance to pull my subconscious into line.

He quietened all of a sudden and apologised to the woman. Silently he approached me and handed me the phone. I stared at it, unsure of what he wanted me to do with it. Gently taking my hand, he lifted the phone to my ear and stroked the side of my face, mouthing, "She wants to talk to you."

I nodded in agreement.

"Hello, is this Lieutenant Colonel Sarah Mackenzie?" a woman's voice greeted me.

"Yes, and you must be Catherine Gale."

"Yes," she confirmed, "I've been wondering about you Colonel. You're listed as Harm's next of kin on my files. Are you two…"

"No," I interrupted flatly, knowing what she was going to ask: Were we involved? We were more than just involved; we were in over our heads and both of us wanted out. I sighed. The rules of engagement had changed since Paraguay. I left messages; he didn't return my calls, yet he'd listed me as his next of kin on his CIA profile. Harmon Rabb Jnr is a walking contradiction in terms.

"Oh," Ms Gale responded quietly, "Webb says you want to know where he is. I would've thought he'd have told you."

"No," I answered, "The affairs of Harmon Rabb are top secret and classified. Not cleared for my eyes so to speak," I paused, "Or else I just didn't need to know."

I could feel her feathers ruffle at my sarcastic comments about the intelligence world.

"Why do you need to know now?" she probed, her tone changing. I sensed a slight hostility in her manner, "I don't usually risk my job for strangers without good reason."

She wanted to know if I was in love with him. I sighed again. Why do I always provoke this kind of reaction from Harm's girlfriends?

"Because he's in trouble," I asserted confidently, "Something has happened to him, and I want to know what."

"How do you know?" she asked, sounding genuinely interested and surprised.

"I just *know*," I tried to explain, "I woke up this afternoon and had this feeling… I know something has happened to him, and it happened at 1830 this evening."

"Look, I'd really like to help you attest the accuracy of your intuition, but I don't know where he is."

"This is not a test of my intuition," I objected irately. 

The other woman laughed at me, "Having 'visions' Colonel?"

I exhaled in indignation, "What would you know about having visions Ms Gale?"

"Call me Catherine," she requested, "And I know because along with a generous appraisal of your many other talents, Harm has mentioned your ability to ah, see things. He trusts your ''visions' Colonel and I believe you have saved his life before. So 'fess up. What happened this evening?"

"I didn't have a vision or anything," I replied, "I didn't even dream about it. I was asleep this afternoon, deeply asleep, dead to the world, when suddenly I woke up. Just like that, no disturbance, nothing," I paused, "I just knew something had happened to him."

"It's interesting that you say that Colonel," she began, "Because at about 1900 tonight, his profile was made highly classified," she sighed, "Until this evening, I could access the details of his assignment. Now there's only three people able to do that: the Director, the Deputy and the President."

"Why do they do that in the CIA?" I inquired. It was hard knowing how the intelligence agency worked, impossible in fact. Since everything was on a need-to-know basis, no one fully knew what was going on at any given time. It seemed very inefficient to me.

"Colonel…"

"It's Mac," I interject.

"Fine. Mac, when missions go wrong they don't call the next of kin in the CIA," she informed me gently, "There's no telegrams and no dog-tags in the mail."

"No," I whispered firmly.

She mistook my statement for an expression of grief, "I'm sorry, but I can't think of any other explanation."

"No," I repeated, "He's not… dead," I stopped, shaking apprehensively, "He's still alive, but he's in trouble."

"How on earth…?" Catherine trailed off in question.

"Because I can still feel him here," I responded, "He's still here, but… but he won't be forever," I choked, repositioning myself on the couch so my knees were drawn to my chest and rocking myself gently, "For eternity."

I could almost hear the thoughts of Catherine Gale: 'This one's a head case.'

The very pregnant pause told me she was disbelieving.

"Catherine, you said you could access his mission details right?" I sat up, questioning the CIA lawyer confidently.

"Yes."

"Do you have a copy of those files which you were previously able to access?"

"I don't think so," she answered. I heard the sounds of shuffling paper across the line, "No, I'm sorry, but I don't appear to have printed a copy."

"But you accessed it via the Internet?" I could hear the excitement creeping into my voice.

"Yes."

"Catherine, open Internet explorer."

"Why?"

"Please, just do it."

"Ok, its open."

"Click on the file menu and scroll down to work offline."

"Yeah, I've done that."

"Now open your history. It's an icon above the…"

"Yeah, I understand what you're getting me to do now Mac," she laughed, "It's here. His entire mission details are here."

"Can you print me a copy?"

"Sure. I'll give it to Webb when he comes in tomorrow."

I blushed a little. Did the entire world know I was dating Clayton Webb? Was there some broadcast of CNN that I didn't see?

"No," I protested, "Tomorrow is too late. He could be…." I stopped, unable to continue for a few moments, "He could be dead by then."

She was quiet for a minute, "You have to accept that it's a very real possibility," she commanded soothingly, "When things go wrong in this business, the higher powers don't usually fix them."

"Well then I'll just have to convince them," I told her, "Where was Harm? On the files you have?"

"He was flying recon flights out of a Saudi Arabian Air Force base," she answered.

"Thank you," I murmured softly.

"Get some sleep Mac," she advised me, "He'll… be fine."

She sounded unconvincing to me. 

"Ok, I'll try," I lied, having no true intention to sleep before Harm was asleep next to me, "Thank you Catherine. Would you like to speak to Webb again?"

"No, give Clayton my regards. Good bye Mac."

"Yeah, bye," I echoed, hanging up and standing up to press the cell into Clay's hands and myself into his arms.

"Thank you," I mumbled exhausted, kissing the side of his jaw sleepily. He held me upright and led me into the bedroom, kissing me into the pillow and letting me go before lying beside me. Then he was pulling me back into his arms and stroking my hair as I cried myself to sleep.

*           *            *            *            *            *

Hashim al-Farrah's FORT

AYTAQ-I-SITUN, AFGHANISTAN

0800 HOURS ZULU

He lay unconscious in the dark and dusty room, the clay walls paying a silent tribute to the sleeping American. Their eyes watched over him, unable to protect or destroy, but condemned to watch. They met in the corners to discuss the new arrival. They hide in the shadows and observe, echoing every whimper of pain, every delirious murmur. The walls are wise. They tell an interesting story, and here begins a new chapter.

*           *            *            *            *            *

CIA HEADQUARTERS

MARYLAND

1400 HOURS ZULU

At 0900 hours, Clay and I were waiting inside a small room he'd ushered me into. He'd called the director of the CIA and spoke to his secretary, letting her know that we were interested in meeting with Director Tennet about an incident that had occurred on a recon op yesterday evening. The secretary seemed to catch on that we knew about something we shouldn't know about. She offered to call us back.

Now we were forced to endure the agony of anticipation. I was pacing the small space like a caged lion. 

"Sit down," Clay requested, gesturing to the seat next to him.

I shook my head, "I can't."

"Why not?"

"I don't know, I'm just… I'm ready for something to happen Clay," I informed him, "We've been sitting around here too long."

I tugged at my Marine green skirt. This little trip was probably going to earn me a letter of reprimand at the very least, very probably jeopardize my chance of making full Colonel and maybe even landing me in a court martial. At that point I didn't care. I walked over to the window, my gaze searching the earth outside the room.

Harm was out there somewhere.

My hand met the glass pane and relished its clear, cool surface. I had to find him. There was no doubts in my mind, no questions of morality. It was plain and simple, black and white: find Harm, and bring him home. That was what I was going to do, no matter how hard, how long and how difficult the fight was. Marines never surrender.

"Sarah, please," Clay asked again, "Come here, stop walking around and working yourself up over this."

"I'm not, I'm fine Clay," I assured him.

"No you're not. You're ready for treks through the Middle East, in desert utilities and combat boots. You're ready to shoulder a weapon and sleep in a foxhole. If that is how you characterize 'fine', then we're going to have some serious issues in there. Stop being so confrontational. He'll sense a battle-ready Marine as soon as you walk in the door."

"And he'd better believe it," I answered.

"Sarah…"

"Clay, my best friend is in life-threatening danger somewhere out there in that vast expanse of globe, and that stupid asshole upstairs refuses to acknowledge he even exists. Anyone, and I mean anyone, who is not interested in helping me find Harm deserves the wrath of a war-hungry Marine, and I intend to give it to them," I vowed vehemently. 

"Cool it," he advised, "Kicking the director of the CIA up the ass won't solve any of your problems, nor will it get you what you want. Be a little more diplomatic…"

The ringing of his cell phone interrupted him mid-sentence.

"Webb," he greeted whoever was calling, "Yes. Yes, mmhmm, good. Thank you so much. Alright, bye."

  
He hung up.

"He's agreed to see us, but no threats of the infliction of grievous bodily harm."

"Pun not intended right?" I grinned at him as he placed a guiding hand on my back and led me down the corridor.

After taking a series of elevators, enduring a 15-minute security clearance process, we finally entered the waiting room of the director.

"Damn, they disarmed me," I pouted mockingly.

"Remind me never to give you heavy artillery Mackenzie," Webb sighed in exasperation. 

"Clay, it's Ok, I'm not going to try and kill the guy. I don't blame him for what happened, I don't even blame him for not doing anything. I just want to know the truth, so I can go and find Harm."

"I don't think it's going to be that easy Mac," he began, cut short by the secretary of the director inviting us into his office.

"Good morning Mr Webb," Tennet greeted us.

"Sir," Webb acknowledged stiffly, returning his handshake tersely. 

  
I sensed hostility in the room, tension between the two men.

"Sir, this is Lieutenant Colonel Sarah Mackenzie, US Marine Corps," Clay introduced us, "Mac, this is George Tennet, Director of the CIA."

"Colonel," he smiled faintly, offering me his hand.

"Sir," I responded, shaking it with my own.

Now that I was standing between the pair, the strain faded.

"What brings you here Wehh?" Tennet asked gruffly.

"The request of the Colonel here," Webb replied. 

The two men turned to stare at me expectantly. Their mannerisms changed obviously when they referred to me, their opinion and attitude towards women apparent. I disliked the gentlemanly reaction. I wasn't used to being treated with awe-like respect because I was a woman. Equality and respect as an officer? Yes. Amazement? No. 

I shot Webb a nervous look.

"Tell him what you know," he encouraged me, taking a step closer to m e and placing a hand on my upper arm.

"Sir, a few months ago as you may have been aware, a USN Lieutenant Commander made a deal with your office in an attempt to rescue Mr Webb and myself from a high-profile terrorist known as Sadiq?"

"Yes Colonel, that operation caused me a lot of grief," he glared at Webb, "I remember it well."

"Shortly after that incident, when we had all returned safely to the states, Lieutenant Commander Harmon Rabb approached you, asking for a job. I believe you offered him a place in your pilot program Sir."

I waited for verification. 

"That I did Colonel," he replied.

"He was given an assignment flying covert recon operations out of a Saudi Arabian/US Air Force base," I continued.

"It should surprise me that you know that Colonel, but predictably it doesn't."

He gave Webb another poisonous glare. I wondered if I could somehow shift the blame from Clay at some point in the conversation without incriminating Catherine Gale.

"And I also know that at 1900 hours last night, his personal details and mission files were made so classified that inly three people in the entire world are cleared to peruse them," I finished the sentence accusingly, "Why?"

"That is something you don't need to know," Tennet replied.

"Something went wrong didn't it?" I challenged, "They were shot down or crashed or something potentially disastrous for foreign relations."

"I can neither confirm nor deny…"

"YES YOU CAN," I retorted, a little more heatedly than I had intended, "You just won't."

"Colonel…"

"Sir, with all due respect, my best friend is dying in some remote corner of the globe and you stand there and tell me you don't know WHY?" I crescendoed to an impressive drill sergeant's voice with a hint of female hysteria. I figured I might as well use my gender to my advantage.

"No Colonel I cannot, and I must say, your lack of understanding and respect for my position is disappointing for an officer of the Marine Corps."

Clay grabbed my arm and pulled me behind him before I had the chance to retaliate.

"Sir, I'm sorry," he apologised, "Colonel Mackenzie has been through a lot lately and she's very worried about Rabb. It's clouding her usually impeccable judgement," he explained, ignoring the fact that I was in the room.

"Sir, I'm sorry to bother you like this but Colonel Mackenzie is very sure that Rabb is alive and in need of assistance," he paused, "She thinks you'll just give him up for dead."

"I don't care what your precious Colonel thinks Mr Webb. I do however object to your apparent lack of objective assessment in regard to her less-physical characteristics. Not only did you screw up in Paraguay, now you're sharing national secrets with her as you lie in bed together."

I felt like slugging the man. Assault had never been so tempting.

"Actually Sir," Clay replied, perfectly cool and slightly supercilious, "I prefer not to discuss the sordid affairs of the office when I make love to my precious Colonel."

I blushed, staring furiously at Webb's back. Their discussion of my sex life in my presence was not amusing. Neither seemed to realise how imminent the realisation of a homicidal retribution fantasy was. I was growing tired and irritated of their male posturing.

"It wasn't Clay, sir," I interrupted, "I have other friends in the CIA, people with higher security clearance," I stated wryly. Webb had endured a slightly severe (in my opinion) demotion after Paraguay.

"Don't Mac," Clay warned me. I rewarded him with an absolutely withering look, all my previous doubts about Clayton Webb's integrity in relationships returning tenfold. His previous comments unnerved me entirely. Sure, we'd been getting along in the past few days but before that… I thought back to the past month. It would be an understatement to say there was a lot of physical chemistry there, but little else. I'd always felt like a prize that Webb liked to show off to his friends (in the intelligence world known as acquaintances. Acquaintances fell into two categories- hostile and non-hostile- characterised by the likelihood of them ending your life or career… a non-hostile might do this, a hostile definitely would.) That aside, emotionally he still felt like a friend, a good friend, a best friend even, but still a friend.

  
He met my gaze evenly.

I'd thought I loved him after all he did for me in Paraguay, confused by his loyalty and the fact that he'd said everything Harm hadn't said without fear. That was before I realised Clay's pledges and promises were those of an international spook: hollow when it suited him. 

I sighed. The conversation between Webb and Director Tennet continued.

I guess we're all a product of our existences. Harm was afraid of commitment because of losing his father and then Diane and all the other people he cared about. Me? I was shit scared of my feelings for him and positively terrified of his feelings for me because of my father and the psychological affects of my childhood that always made me feel undeserving of that kind of unconditional love. And Webb was unable to make promises he could keep or commit to anyone or welcome any unconditional love because of the danger his line of work put him and those he loved in.

The present situation interrupted my musings.

"YOU WILL NOT TELL ME WHAT I CAN AND CANNOT DO, MR WEBB," Tennet yelled.

I sighed once more. All the problems in my life could be justifiably blamed on the opposite sex.

Webb met the Director's volume with a biting comeback.

"WOULD YOU BOTH STOP?" I screamed, outdoing both of them.

They turned to stare.

"Yeah, stop behaving like children," I commanded wearily, "It won't solve anything."

They acknowledged that I was right.

"I'm sorry Colonel, but I'm not permitted to disclose the details of Rabb's mission last night in the interest of national security," the Director notified me on a final note.

"Then it was last night?" I grilled him, picking up on his slip instantly.

He was unable to respond for a moment, thinking of a diplomat's answer (ie. a way to lie without lying). He decided to concede defeat, "Yes Colonel, it was, and how do you know that?"

"I had a feeling," I answered as Webb jabbed me, "Besides Ca… the classification," I recovered quickly, "The reclassification of the files happened last night."

"Very good Colonel, I'm sure you perform a gruelling cross-examination, but if you'll excuse me…"

"Not until you tell me what happened at 1830 yesterday evening."

"Over my dead body."

I was more than willing and about to oblige when Webb physically restrained me again.

"Sir," he pleaded, "Could you tell us anything? Is he alive or missing?"

"I can't tell you anything because we don't know," the CIA Director answered.

"If you don't tell me, I swear I will ensure that your life is made worse than hell, so help me God," I declared.

"Careful Colonel, you wouldn't want to threaten me. Does your CO know you're here?"

He took my silence as an answer with a thin smile.

"Now this meeting has gone on far too long. If you'll excuse me, I'm a busy man," he concluded firmly.

His threat still suspended in the air, I turned and left without waiting for Clay's reaction.

"'Sarah," he called after me as I hurried out of the office and into the long hallway.

I stopped and faced him, "What, I'm not just your precious Colonel anymore?"

"Sarah, I didn't mean it like that…" he trailed off, his weak argument left unfinished.

"Clayton Webb, let's get one thing straight. What WE do in MY bedroom is not the business of YOUR BOSS!"

"That fact is firmly established," he assured me, "I'm sorry, but he still blames me for screwing up in Paraguay. You've gotta understand, its hard for me to… to just accept that. I know I made some mistakes, but I almost lost you," he paused, "That's punishment enough Sarah."

I observed him idly.

"I love you I swear," he attested quietly.

"I love you too," I replied, not adding the 'I think'. 

"Good, cuz I want to marry you and have kids with you and make you happy for the rest of your life."

I smiled sadly.

I had enough problems with the dangers of bring a fighter pilot, let alone a spook, but here I was, talking about white picket fences and Holy Matrimony with Clayton Webb. Me, the object of a secret agent's affection… who would've thought?

*           *            *            *            *            *

Hashim al-Farrah's FORT

AYTAQ-I-SITUN, AFGHANISTAN

2100 HOURS ZULU

The pilot slowly opened his eyes. His head felt like a large granite bolder, his eyelids were far heavier than they should've been, his neck ached, his shoulders were stiff, his arms throbbed with pain, his fingers were causing immense discomfort, his back hurt, his legs cried out in protest at the mere connotation of movement, and his toes were crushed. Fighting the hands of gravity and the objection of every individual particle that comprised his body, he lifted his head for almost a second before surrendering to the torture, giving into the release from the acute agony. He closed his eyes to the clay walls and listened to them whisper their history in a strange and exotic tongue.

*           *            *            *            *            *

ZNN NEWS OFFICES

ARLINGTON

2140 HOURS ZULU

Webb and I arrived at the news officers at 1700, a thick manila folder resting on my lap. Webb had called the Assistant Director after we'd finished our meeting with Tennet. He had been a little reluctant at first, but after Webb reminded him of a few dues owing and several embarrassing personal facts, he'd hurriedly agreed to help.

The photocopy of the files had been delivered to a drop point in industrial Washington. It was all very exciting to me. The whole thing felt like an action movie: spies, dark alleys and hidden communication exchange places. Webb hadn't been enthralled in the slightest. It was all routine to him, except that he had me with him. The worry in his voice when he'd told me to wait in the car had amused me. After assuring him I was a Marine and could take care of myself, he had grabbed me and dragged me along behind him. The way he was intent on protecting me was unsettling. Tennet had been right. He did lack objective judgement when it came to me.

My discomfort had dissipated entirely as soon as we were once again alone and the folder was in my hands. I'd devoured it's contents eagerly. The incident report said Harm and his co-pilot had been hit by an unknown projectile. The last radio transmission they'd had was attached. I read it, the hair on my arms standing on end and shivering.

CIA RADIO COMMUNICATIONS TRANSCRIPT 

Dark Rider: Nightfriend? Fuck pleasantries, the monkey's your uncle. I repeat, the monkey is your uncle. We've been hit with something explosive."

_Nightfriend: Dark Rider, I need to confirm, the monkey is my uncle?_

_Dark Rider: Yeah, its urgent, we've been shot down._

_Nightfriend: What is your position?_

_Dark Rider: We're just south of Santa's helpers at the North Pole. Slightly west of the toy factory. There's a hot 89 petalled rose at 74am and a cold 171.5 legged chair asleep at 154pm. Speed, average of my birthday and yours._

_Nightfriend: Roger that, I'll try and get some help out there Dark Rider._

_Dark Rider: Thanks Nightfriend…"_

_(The communications systems failed at this point.)_

_Nightfriend: Dark rider, do you copy me dark rider?_

_Dark Rider: Loud and clear, Nightfriend."_

_Nightfriend: KEEP IN RADIO CONTACT, DO NOT…_

_(The systems cut out for several moments)_

Dark Rider: Nightfriend," he began, "Do me a favour would you? Tell Sarah I love her."

Nightfriend: Roger that Dark Rider.

Last transmission received: 2234 ZULU 

Last transmission sent: 2236 ZULU

Date: 12Oct03

Signature of Submitting Agent: Haytham al-Farrah

I wasn't able to speak for almost an hour afterwards. Webb had dropped me off at JAG, and after enduring a bashing from the Admiral about missing my morning court appearance, I'd sat in my office and cried silently, not capable of movement, cognitive processes or verbal communication. Webb had reappeared just after lunch and asked me what was wrong. I handed him the tear-stained sheet of paper silently.

He had clenched it in one hand and let it fall onto my desk unceremoniously. 

Two hours later, an idea occurred to me. I'd promised the Director hell and hell was what I was going to give him. If there's one thing that makes the Director of the CIA's life hell, it's the press. And the press love a good story about the CIA, especially one that causes political controversy. I relayed my idea to Webb. Sighing, he'd reluctantly agreed to help me. I could feel him growing tired of my efforts.

Now, as we stood outside the tall building, he was eyeing my wistfully. Though neither of us had voiced our thoughts or were willing to act on our realisation, after reading that transcript we both knew 'we' were over. 

"You ready?" he asked me.

"Yeah," I answered, bouncing up the steps, eager to put our plan into action. 

As we stood in the elevator, I leant up and kissed him.

"What was that for?"

"For being so wonderful," I smiled, "Thank you for all your help, it means so much to me."

He kissed me again, backing me against the wall with his hands either side of my curves, "My pleasure Sarah."

He led me out of the elevator, walked past the reception desk, smiling at the woman behind the counter and sauntering into a large office at the end of a long corridor.

"Sit down," he invited, stretching out on the leather couch and pulling me down beside him.

"Clay, do you think this…" I began but was interrupted by another voice.

"Clayton, good to see you."

Clay stood up and shook the man's hand, "Same to you Josh, it's been a while."

"No kidding. The last time I saw you we were fresh out of college."

The two exchanged a nostalgic laugh before Clay's friend turned to me.

"And who is your beautiful lady friend?"

"This is Lieutenant Colonel Sarah Mackenzie," Clay introduced us, "Sarah, this is Joshua Ashworth, the head of the newsroom here."

"Hi," I said shortly, reaching over to shake his hand.

"Please, sit down," Ashworth requested, gesturing to the couch. He sat opposite us and smiled, "So what brings you here after all these years Clay?"

"I came to repay old debts."

It was clear Josh felt no resentment, "How do you intend to make amends for stealing my girlfriend and my car, wrecking the car and almost killing the girl?"

"I'll make you a deal you won't be able to resist," Webb suggested.

"Ok old friend, what've you got in mind?"

"Well I need a favour."

"I thought as much," Ashworth grinned.

"Actually it's me that needs the favour," I piped up

"Anything for a beautiful lady. What do you need Colonel?"

"I need about three minutes of air time on the 7 o'clock news," I notified him.

He stared at me, "You'd better have a good story Ma'am."

I laughed, "This is one story that's so good you won't believe it."

*           *            *            *            *            *            *


	3. CHAPTER2A: Nothing Else

"CHAPTER TWO: Part A- Nothing Else"

*           *           *           *           *

ZNN NEWS OFFICES

ARLINGTON

2340 HOURS ZULU

I sat in a leather chair while someone fussed over my hair and applied more make-up than I had thought humanly possible to my face. Every time the woman stepped away to gather supplies or attend to the other five people in the room, I swivelled around to face Clay and Josh who were having a good natured pissing competition about their respective achievements. The only obvious sore point was the now smashed up red Mercedes that Webb had "borrowed" while in pursuit of an immigrant suspected of bank fraud. The car had been carrying Josh's girlfriend at the time, and had somehow ended up plastered to the concrete wall of a shopping complex. Both Webb and the girl escaped unscathed and proceeded to have a relationship, however the grief was obviously for the car and not the girl the way the two of them joked about her giving them their "first dose of a broken heart". I smiled to myself. It sounded so typically Webb: embark on some dangerous, impossible and ultimately unsuccessful mission, destroying all moving vehicles he came into remote contact with and almost facilitating the demise of the innocent bystander in the process. Agent Webb in a nutshell. Clay would've killed me had he been able to hear such thoughts in my head.

We were also discussing strategy for my brief address, which had been pre-written. I'd worked on it all afternoon at JAG while waiting for Webb to return with the news he had a friend willing to help out. It wasn't brilliant in my opinion. As a litigator I hated relying on emotional appeals and compassion-seeking arguments, but in the case I had little option. I could tell all of America the details of Harm's mission and convince them with the facts that he needed assistance, but what would that prove? The answer was nothing, it would only serve to jeopardise national security as well as his life. I could stand before my fellow citizens and make a touching plea for their support as the cold, heartless director of the CIA and friend of Satan allowed my best friend to die a painful death. There was the other angle of course, that I could inform the American public of the results of Harm's mission without delving into the causes, the events that led up to what had transpired while still relying on emotional appeals and touching pleas to win the hearts of the voting public. I consulted Webb and Josh on this matter.

"I think you should go for the facts," Webb replied immediately, "Go up there and tell them how it is. If you just stand there and bawl your eyes out, all Tennet's going to do is stand up and ridicule you in front of the entire country."

"No Colonel, I think you should appear as a respected woman. You know, strong, in command, making Tennet sweat and loving every minute of his discomfort. But at the same time, you can't appear too harsh. I don't think you should resort to quote 'bawling your eyes out' but let them know how much this guy means to you. Struggle to retain your composure as the speech goes on, refuse to cry in front of the cameras, make a show of not showing emotion, of holding back in order to convince these people using the facts and then persuade the American people to see things your way."

I decided to use the best of both the appeal of my gender and military training to successfully brand the CIA akin to the Devil.

"Because we all know you like having things your way," Webb commented dryly, grinning at me.

"It's not my fault," I retorted, "I'm a General-in-training you know."

  
We shared a laugh at the expense of the two-stars sitting on the opposite side of the suburb in the Pentagon. I also laughed because I had no chance of ever making General, what with all the interesting things already on my record. After this broadcast to the entire nation I'd be lucky to remain in the Marines, blessed to make full Colonel and bar a miracle, would never be made a General.

Sometimes desperate people make desperate decisions. Desperate decisions are rarely rational, usually unwise and in most cases, incredibly insane. This was one crazy decision. I was about to trash the director of the CIA on national television, in a desperate gamble. I didn't like the odds. Here I was hoping that I could somehow save Harm's life (even through association), not get kicked out of the Marines and convince the American people to take my side. The other outcomes: lose best friend, lose job, lose Webb (probably), have Webb lose his job too, start a chain reaction that would bring my world crashing down around me. 

The other outcomes sounded more probable.

But I had to do it. I had things to say, closing arguments to make, resolutions to reach. And there was no way I was letting some American-hating terrorist or over the hill, paper-crunching, two-piece suit with a receding hairline and a comb-over deprive me of that chance.

Besides, he had done the same for me. He resigned his commission to come to Paraguay after me. Why had I been so hell bent on hearing three words? I should have known he loved me: he'd given up his job, which was more than just work for him, it meant he'd given up the Navy and flying and JAG. I knew he loved all of those things. He'd risked his life and made his own desperate decisions just to find me, and I'd simply dismissed all those facts because I needed to hear the words. Webb had said them and he hadn't. What was with those three little words and me? They're not even big words really: 3 words, made up of 8 letters. But I had to hear them. I knew he loved me, but I had to test him. As if the choice to chase after me had not been test enough. I'd always hated emotionally driven arguments, so why on earth had I not listened to the facts? The man had given up just about everything he loved in life (for once I had priority over a Tomcat… I mean, we're talking about Harm here; that had to mean something.) He'd flown across the Atlantic, compromised his moral values, nearly lost his life, gambled for me and lost.

The things we do for love. Here was me, about to throw my career away and risk everything for my best friend. There was Harm, who'd come to save me in Paraguay, lost his job, all but lost me, joined the CIA because he loved flying and was now almost dying somewhere because he'd loved me enough to resign his commission to find me. And then there was Webb, who was doing everything within his power to allow me to find Harm even though he knew it would mean he would most certainly lose his "girlfriend". The man really did love me.

"Clay?" I called to him quietly.

"Yeah?"

"Thanks."

"You're welcome. Good luck Sarah."

I stood quietly on the instruction of a tech-assistant and followed him to a dark corner of the studio with two chairs positioned facing outwards but turned in toward each other. He sat me in one of the chairs and began to brief me on the equipment.

"Ok, see your mike?"

I nodded.

"I'll turn that on right before you speak, so don't worry about not saying anything. You'll be on about 12 minutes into the news, but I'll signal you guys before anything happens. When the mike does come on, speak normally; otherwise it'll interfere with the sound. When Sandra gets here I'll get her to go through camera tips with you. She'll be asking you a few questions to start with so just follow her prompts," he instructed, "You Ok with that?"

"Yes," I responded quietly.

"Good luck Ma'am, I heard what you were trying to do," he grinned, "Hate the intelligence people myself. Never say anything about nothing, and say nothing about anything."

He left me to the shadows of the corner, sitting in silence, folding and re-folding the sheet of paper in my hand. I was so absorbed in thought that I didn't notice the woman rush in and sit next to me until she had repeatedly called my name several times.

"Colonel?"

"Uh, yes?" I recovered quickly.

"You're Colonel Mackenzie?"

"Yes."

"Sandra Jameson," she announced, offering me her hand. I accepted the handshake from across the small table between us.

"I'm going to ask you a few questions to direct the flow of the report into your speech," she informed me, "Don't worry, they won't be hard to answer, just do the best you can."

I nodded in acknowledgement.

"When the cameras start, act as though there are no cameras. It looks more natural that way and you appear better on screen, more relaxed. It looks more realistic," she informed me, "Don't feel self-conscious. Yes it's a live feed, but you're not going to make any drastic mistakes."

She regarded me for a long moment.

"Clay said you're a hotshot lawyer, so I'm sure the public speaking part won't give you any grief. It's just the cameras and all the tech equipment. My advice to you? Pretend you're in court. It's your home turf, so it'll make it easier. Me? I'm a university lecturer, or I was, so when I do this stuff I just pretend I'm giving a lecture," she smiled, "Helps you to relax."

I returned the smile nervously, crushing the paper between my clammy palms.

"It's Ok, they're gonna turn everything on now," she whispered, "Ready? 3-2-1… Good evening," she launched into a tirade notifying the viewers of the situation. I was vaguely impressed. Someone had briefed her well in a very short space of time.

Much to my dislike, the time between her monologue and my speech was brief and passed all too quickly. I answered her questions with short, polite answers. Repeating Ms Jameson's advice in my head, I tried to ignore the lights. The cameras weren't an issue: it was too bright for me to see them.

"I believe you have a short statement to make to our viewers?" Sandra Jameson began, with a stated question that was obviously meant to be my introduction.

"Yes, I do," I responded, taking a deep breath and trying to ignore my nerves and sounding more confident than I felt.

"Good evening," I continued, reciting what I had rehearsed with Clay and Josh, "Yesterday evening at 6:30pm, I learnt of a complication to a mission undertaken by two Central Intelligence Agency employees: Harm-on Rabb," I slipped, but quickly continued, so it sounded more like a stumble, "And William Graham, the first of these men being my former partner and best friend, who had recently become employed by agency," I paused.

"This morning I was privileged enough to be offered the audience of Mr G Tennet, director of the CIA. In this meeting, I asked Mr Tennet what had had happened to my friend. As his next-of-kin, I had expected some official notification of the incident. Mr Tennet claimed I did not 'need to know' the details of the whereabouts and well being of my best friend and what caused a seemingly routine operation to go wrong.

The CIA's mission files on this operation were yesterday re-classified to be so secure that only three people in the world may read them, yet Mr Tennet had no information or knowledge of my friend's existence." 

Pause.

"Reasonably this seemed a little strange to me. Enlisting the help of my contacts within the intelligence industry, I was able to locate a copy of these highly classified files and was surprised at what I read." 

Inhale.

 "While performing an important reconnaissance mission in North-West Afghanistan, Harmon Rabb and his co-pilot, William Graham, were shot down over an unknown geographical location. Within hours, Rabb and Graham had been imprisoned by a local warlord and held hostage. A demand for ransom as well as an armistice was received by the Central Intelligence Agency at 5am this morning. The CIA did not acknowledge this demand. Both men have been removed from the agency's records. The files were made classified and destroyed shortly after 4pm this afternoon. Clearly the CIA is hoping that these two men will fade out of existence without jeopardising the secrecy of the CIA's mission."

My voice wavered a little and I let my lip tremble before continuing.

"Two of our fellow Americans have been captured and injured while serving our country. These two men…"

I inhaled sharply, masking a sob.

"They were defending American interests and gathering intelligence to protect both Afghan civilians and the American people. How can we not act? How can we the people of the United States of America, leave our fellow Americans for dead?" 

I was getting patriotic. I can't help it. I do love my country, and I'm passionate about America. There's this concept, this culture, this amazingly wonderful inspiring atmosphere in this country. It's in the people, the land, the cities, the rivers and lakes and mountains. It's addictive and I love it.

"In the words of Thomas Jefferson, We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness. Do these two men not deserve that liberty?"

My voice was getting a little louder, more passionate, and rousing. I wondered where I was going with all of this. This had not been in my planned speech. 

I kept going after a quick pause.

"Is this not the land of the free and the home of the brave? Are we not Americans? A nation, a brotherhood, we happy few, are we not a band of brothers?"

Where in hell was I getting this stuff from? I'd obviously paid more attention during my education than I remembered.

"And do we not owe it to our brothers, our countrymen, our fellow Americans, do we not owe it to them to secure their freedom and their unalienable rights of life, liberty and pursuit of happiness? Are those who's mission is to protect our great nation America not due our every effort to ensure the safe return home to this, our country, this sweet land of liberty?"

I finished, flushed and a little breathless. Within minutes it was over and I was sitting next to Webb in Josh's office.

"Didn't know you thought of Rabb as a brother Mackenzie," he jibed.

I glared, "Clay."

"What?"

I sighed, "Nothing."

"Thanks Josh, that was important to me," Clay expressed his gratitude to his friend.

"Pleasure," Josh grinned, "It's a good story and today was a relatively quiet day. No mass shootings," he joked.

I sat in silently contemplation, consciously thinking about nothing, but really overcome by subconscious melancholy.

"Mac?" Clay called.

I only vaguely heard him and didn't respond.

"Mac?"

"Oh yeah," I blinked twice and turned my head to face him, "Yes?"

"Are you Ok?"

"I'm fine."

"Josh just asked us to dinner. You up for it?"

"I think I might go home," I apologised, "You go ahead, I'll see you some time."

"Yeah," Clay mumbled in reply.

The atmosphere was ridden with tension, like we were waiting for a WMD to explode.

"Thanks so much Mr Ashworth," I turned to him, offering my hand and slipping into overtired Marine mode.

"You're welcome Colonel. Look after Clay, and don't let him drive your car," he grinned, returning my handshake enthusiastically.

I meandered across the floor to the doorway as Clay and Josh made arrangements for the evening. 

"You can drive yourself home can't you?" Clay asked me, "Cuz Josh'll give me a lift, and you can go now."

Was he dismissing me? It didn't sound like a question.

"Yeah, Ok," I agreed distantly, "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Or maybe Wednesday, or Thursday. I'm busy at the moment," he shrugged, "The office."

I pressed my lips together in a semi-smile which more closely resembled a grimace, "Yeah, I know what it's like. Well I'll see you anyway. Bye."

"Yeah, see you."

"And thank you very much Mr Ashworth."

"Any time Colonel."

I smiled more convincingly this time, before disappearing into the hallway and walking toward the elevator. As I walked I replayed the events of the past 36 hours. When I reached the conversation I had just left, I examined Webb's responses thoughtfully. Was he angry with me? Was he ignoring me? He had blatantly blown me off, and that comment about Harm being my brother was a bit too biting for a joke. 

I sighed.

Men. Too much trouble, too much pain but women can't live without them. God certainly was strange. The laws of nature make no sense.

*           *           *           *           *           *           *

JAG HEADQUARTERS

FALLS CHURCH

1358 HOURS ZULU

Uncharacteristically, I entered the office five minutes late to find the usual gossip circulating, the usual paperwork looming sinisterly in the still-shadowy depths of my office, and the usual people coming and going at the usual pace.

He wasn't there. I was used to that now, but every second morning I'd think about him not being here, and this was a second morning. I was once again reviewing our conversation in Paraguay in my head, when I was interrupted by a Lieutenant's voice.

"Ma'am," Harriet called. "The Admiral wants to see…" 

"MACKENZIE, IN MY OFFICE," Chegwidden bellowed, appearing before anyone had the chance to come to attention, "NOW!" 

He disappeared without his customary 'as you were'.

I cringed slightly.

"That would be his request Ma'am," Harriet observed meekly, with a sympathetic look.

"Thank you Lieutenant. Either wish me luck or give me a gun," I paused, "He appears homicidal."

"Yes Ma'am," Harriet agreed, "Good luck."

"Thanks Lieutenant," I responded weakly, moving in the general direction of Chegwidden's office, depositing my belongings in my office en route. 

As I approached Tiner came to attention.

"Thanks Petty Officer," I sighed.

"Uh, as you heard, he wants to see you right away Ma'am."

"Yeah," I swallowed, "What's your weather report Tiner?"

"He's, ah, really pissed off Ma'am."  

"God help me."

"TINER," the Admiral's voice bellowed through the closed door, "WHERE IS COLONEL MACKENZIE?"

I crossed the distance between the polished wood and me and knocked.

"ENTER."

I complied apprehensively, not encouraged by Tiner's sympathetic glance.

"SIR," I announced my presence, standing in front of his desk at attention. 

"COLONEL MACKENZIE, I PRESUME YOU DID NOT SEE THE 7 O'CLOCK NEWS LAST NIGHT?"

"Uh, no Sir," I mumbled quietly.

"DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW MANY PEOPLE DID?"

"Roughly 2 million Sir," I estimated.

"DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW MANY IMPORTANT POLITICAL FIGURES SAW IT?"

"No Sir."

"DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHY I WOULD BE SO ANGRY ABOUT A NEWS BROADCAST?"

"Well," I began dryly, "It could have, you know, just maybe, it might've been due to the fact that I…"

"YES YOU. YOU PUBLICALLY DEGRADED AND HUMILIATED THE DIRECTOR OF THE CIA, THAT'S WHAT YOU DID!"

"I don't know about degraded Sir."

"YOU ACCUSED HIM OF LYING TO YOU."

"All the evidence suggests that he did Sir."

"ARE YOU ARGUING WITH ME COLONEL?"

"No Sir."

"GOOD! NOW, DO YOU UNDERSTAND WHY I WOULD BE UPSET ABOUT THIS?"

"Uh, well, yes Sir."

"DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW IRATE THE SECNAV WAS WHEN HE CALLED ME THIS MORNING?"

"I can only imagine Sir."

"YES, WELL HE WANTS YOU IN A COURT MARTIAL ASAP. THAT WAS BEFORE MY FIRST CUP OF COFFEE COLONEL."

"My apologies Sir."

"AND THAT IS NOT THE WORST COLONEL. DO YOU KNOW WHAT HAPPENED AFTER THE SECNAV CALLED?"

"I have no idea Sir."

"THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES WAS ON THE PHONE ASKING WHY IN HELL I COULD NOT KEEP MY PEOPLE IN CHECK. THE PRESIDENT!"

I gulped. This was a lot worse than I had expected.

"Did you give him my regards Sir?" I mumbled, too quietly for him to hear. Dear God, I was never going to survive this.

"DO YOU KNOW WHAT I TOLD HIM?"

"No Sir, I do not."

"I TOLD HIM THAT THE REASON I COULD NOT KEEP MY PEOPLE IN CHECK WAS THAT THEY PERSISTED IN GOING ON DANGEROUS MISSIONS WITH THE CIA AND ALMOST GETTING THEMSELVES KILLED AND THE REST OF MY STAFF CONTINUALLY AND FREQUENTLY LAUNCHED WILD GOOSE CHASES AND PASSIONATE CRUSADES TO SAVE THEM. I TOLD THEM MY WHOLE DAMN STAFF HAD A HERO-COMPLEX AS WELL AS A DAMSEL-IN-DISTRESS DISORDER."

He paused for a breath.

"Do you have any idea how much damage you have done?" he asked me quietly, the restrained anger perfectly audible.

"I don't like to speculate Sir."

"You will be court martialled for this Colonel, there really is nothing I can do about that."

I nodded dreading the rest of my life entirely.

"On the other hand, you did make the Director incredibly nervous," Chegwidden's anger seemed to dissipate. He smiled at me.

I almost fell over in shock.

"Maybe there'll finally stop trying to use this office as a recruiting post."

Oh I got it now. I'd won his pissing contest for him. Great. I inwardly rolled my eyes. 

"On the other hand, you did get my ass kicked before a decent hour of day," he sighed wearily, "Although I believe I returned the favour."

"I'm sure you'd give the Secnav a good competition any day of the week Sir," I asserted ruefully.

"Dismissed Colonel."

"Aye aye Sir."

I exited the office as fast as I could before the events had a chance to register in my mind. Suddenly the reality of the whole situation hit me: a court martial. That was it. I could see myself waving good-bye to my career as the jury published its findings: dishonourable discharge with a siding of fries and coke. (The fries and coke did of course involve my bank manager and maybe a room in local brig.) 

I cursed quietly, almost immediately regretting the impulsive decision of the night before. With a slight satisfaction I slammed the door to my office behind me and marched over to my desk. As my eyes skimmed the pages of the radio communications transcript, the anger and regret faded instantly. I was reminded of the need to reach a resolution with him that was the justification of all the risks I had taken. There was only one objective in my mind, and nothing else mattered.

*           *           *           *           *           *

A/N: I will update this chapter, as it's not finished. The ending is a bit dodgy, but I wanted to post it before the weekend.


	4. CHATPER2B: Story Of The Mudbrick Walls

"CHAPTER TWO- Part B: The Story Of The Mud-brick Walls"

*           *            *            *            *            *

A/N: This chapter contains violence of a non-graphic nature and does include concepts and issues that some readers may find disturbing. This portrayal of Communist Afghanistan is not intended to degrade Afghans, nor does it represent the beliefs/behaviours of the majority of Afghans during this time. I am perturbed by any sought of violence towards children and if readers find this distressing, this chapter does contain very mild references to such acts. 

I am unaware of any unlawful violence being undertaken by the Afghan Army of this time and remind the readers that this is a fictional piece of work, and while most of the facts contained within are historically accurate, poetic license and implementation of fictional plots does of course occur in this story.

*           *            *            *            *            *

Hashim al-Farrah's FORT

AYTAQ-I-SITUN, AFGHANISTAN

1405 HOURS ZULU

The room was adorned with carpets, lots of carpets. There were large ones, small ones, red ones, blue ones, deep green ones, soft ones, rough ones, finished ones, old ones, new ones and half-woven ones. Every colour of the rainbow, every combination of tiny knots was catered for in this large collection of carpets.

In the middle of the room sat three women, all positioned around an unfinished design in a circle. In the still-shadowy corners of the room, two young children played: a boy, named Mazin, and a girl, Farrah. The two children laughed as they danced in and out of the hanging rugs, pouncing on each other, sneaking up behind one another and trying to evade the other. The game was light-hearted and blessed with all the innocence of childhood.

The three women did not smile. They did not laugh. They barely spoke. Each was rapt in their own task, their own futures, their own pasts, their own memories and their own plans. Each had grown from the same laughing creature as Farrah: a bright-eyed, smiling young girl with her head covered by a colourful scarf and her head full of fairytales and dreams. One of the women, Na'ima, sighed. She had been distracted from her pain-staking work for long enough to observe her son play with this young girl, and the reaction was an overwhelming yearning to be that young again, for life to be that simple.

But life was not that simple. 

These three women were Afghans of the first generation to mature since Soviet rule had commenced in 1979. Na'ima had been 13 when the Russians had first invaded. The occupation had come just months after she had begun to observe purdah. Her father had been an avid supporter of Hafizullah Amin's administration. He had been killed along with his leader on December 27th, 1979. Na'ima and her family had never recovered. Her mother had no way of earning money to feed the family of five. Na'ima was the oldest surviving child. She had four brothers, the oldest of whom was now dead, and three young brothers who were far too young to work. Her younger sister was only two years old at the time. Na'ima had been sent to live with her uncle along with her youngest brother. She had been betrothed to her cousin from birth and though she was old enough to marry, it was her mother's wish that she remain unmarried until she was 15. During the two years she resided with her uncle, she nearly single-handedly raised her younger brother. It was generally accepted among the women of the household that he was her son. At 15 she had been due to marry her cousin. It was the spring of 1981 and a traditional Afghan wedding had been planned. Her cousin had gone into town with her uncle before their wedding. Both men were killed in a _gali_ in the local bazaar in a dispute between the People's Democratic Party and Banner supporters. During her fifteen years, Na'ima's life had been destroyed twice by the Soviets. Her hate for the Russians deepened. 

Na'ima was finally married at eighteen. Her husband was a second cousin who had become besotted with her after several visits. She watched their third son play now, nine years after her marriage, and pressed her lips together in a kind of grim smile. This boy's father had also been killed in the civil war that raged within her divided country. He had been drafted to serve in the Afghan Army. A proud supporter and instigating member of the Mujahidin, he had deserted at the first opportunity. She still remembered it well. He had come to their door very late at night, well after midnight. Na'ima had been afraid to open the door for him. When she finally moved the wooden slab, it revealed her husband standing before her, the moonlight behind him making him a mere silhouette to her eyes. Stunned, she had stepped aside and allowed him to enter the house without a word. His kiss had surprised her. His heated embrace had shocked her. These were the pleas of a desperate man who knew his days were limited. He had bedded with her that night. The memories of the night were hazy. It was the morning that Na'ima recalled vividly, every slight movement, every small sound, every scent; every grotesque sight was etched and engraved in her mind. They had come when it was still early. He had told her to dress and answer the door. She had. The men had gestured to the uniforms, and without a word, pushed past her and into the house. Her first child was standing in the doorway; her husband was sitting at the table. A burst of fire from an AK-47 and her husband's bloody face slumped into the tabletop. Her son had screamed. A stray bullet to the wall above his head sent him running out of the room, yelling for his mother. Na'ima had been unable to move, tears coursing down her cheeks and her knees unable to support her weight. She had dropped to the floor and lay without moving until the men were gone and her husband had been removed and her kitchen was clean of all evidence and her son came to ask her if she was all right. She had not been all right, but she had assured the child everything would be fine. In the next room, a baby had started to cry. 

This was the last time Na'ima's life would know the horrors of Communist Afghanistan, but the lessons had been learnt. When she bore her third child, the last of her husband's offspring, she had sworn with undisguisable bitterness that he would be the one to rid her country of the oppressive Russian nightmare. As she watched Mazin play with his young childhood friend she prayed the future would hold more promising times for her son.

Parvin sitting beside her was named after the Pleiades. Many nights, Parvin had sat under the star-lit sky, wrapped in her chador and wondered why. Why was she so small in a world so big? Growing up in a nation ruled by men she had never understood her place in society. Her father had often shouted at her, told her she would never find a decent Muslim husband, and that she was a not a faithful and obedient daughter. She had been a child, and she just wanted an answer to her question. Parvin had always been intelligent, she had outranked the boys in many of her classes, benefiting from an education. When she was 19, her father had forced her into marriage. Her husband was a good and honourable man. They had several wonderful children. That was before the invasion. After, two of her children, both her sons, were left dead. Her husband joined the resistance, the desire to avenge the death of his sons overcoming his sanity. Parvin was left with two daughters, one now married and the other betrothed. Her only surviving offspring, and despite her hopes and wishes for them, she knew they would live the same life as she had, and they would struggle for their freedom as she had and they would pray for the mercy of Allah to take them from their harsh and rugged land before their lives were through. She knew this and secretly, when she was alone and no one was around, she prayed that it had been her daughters taken by the Russians, not her sons. She thought these thoughts to be despicable for a mother, but could not help but think them nonetheless. Her sons would've grown into fine men and made a good name for themselves in their small town. Her daughters would spend their lives fighting. 

Parvin sighed. 

The men of her country often died in battle, but it was the women who died fighting. Years of supporting the men, years of praying for relief and comfort whichever way it may come and years of fighting for freedom for the chains that bound a woman of Afghanistan. 

Yes, she did not wish that life upon her daughters.

The third woman was the youngest present. Barely twenty years old, Zareen was no stranger to the horrors her counterparts had endured. The daughter of a leader within the Mujahidin, she had grown up in Pakistan. At 18, she had been married to the son of a warlord within the local area in the hopes of an alliance being formed between the two families. At 19, she had given birth to her first child, a daughter. The child had been named Farrah, but her father had been displeased. He had been excited at the thought of his first descendant but immediately after her birth had been distant to her. Since the first news of Zareen's pregnancy he had always hoped for a son. Farrah had been a disappointment to him from the beginning. 

He had soon ceased distancing himself from his young daughter, captivated by her chaste face and stunning beauty. He had instead blamed what was in his opinion an unfortunate act of nature on Zareen. He had either ignored or beaten his wife for many weeks. He claimed she was unable to bear a son, a silver blade in hand. She had begged and pleaded with him to give her another chance. He had agreed to this and brutally attempted to physically ensure this reality. Within months, Zareen had been pregnant again. Her second pregnancy had born twins: a daughter named Amani and a son, Sohrab. Zareen had entered the small nursery one summer afternoon to find Amani's throat slit, blood staining the white blanket the dead baby was wrapped in. She had screamed and rushed outside to find her husband grinning, Farrah on one knee and his son cradled in his arms. She had been unable to speak. Her husband had threatened her many times. If she spoke of the incident to anyone, she knew her fate would be identical to her baby's. He never threatened Farrah. His initial disappointment at her gender had been replaced by a deep-set affection. His daughter was his pride and joy. Now Zareen watched Farrah play with the son of her work-friend and wondered if this young boy would become a man like her husband. She shuddered at the thought. 

As she observed the display of innocence before her she wondered how life would corrupt this young soul, transforming him from a guiltless boy into a harsh and unforgiving man. It was a cyclic lifestyle that did not end: the girls grew into women, married and bore children while the men died around them; the boys were tainted by their years and grew into men proud of their politics and trigger-happy with their Kalashinovs. Now they could play with little thought of the differences between them. In the coming years it would become apparent, and the young boy would distance himself from the young woman, at first out of traditional Islamic respect, but as the years wore on it would become disdain. He would become superior to her, she would grow quieter, more able to fade into her surroundings, to be invisible and he would not see her, the woman he once played with among the carpets. This was the future for these two children, a future always determined by gender, and it was bleak.

And yet, as the three women sat watching the children's game unfold before them, they wondered if they dared to hope. To hope that this might be the future of Afghanistan, that their war-torn country might know liberation at the hands of these innocent young faces and joy-filled laughter.

  
The walls watched, remembering this scene now as a completely different one took place before them. The carpets were gone, the women were no longer weaving and the children had disappeared.

The pilot lay still. He had not yet fully regained consciousness. He did not want to.

This story told by the walls was captivating. 

He tried to recapture the essence of the image they had projected, but now wakefulness had gripped at his mind, he was unable to delve back into the past.

Closing his eyes, he heard the faint echo of childish laughter, but the naivety was gone. The happiness was now tainted by years of history.

*           *            *            *            *            *


	5. CHAPTER2C: Maybe, Maybe, Maybe

"CHAPTER TWO- Part C: Maybe, Maybe, Maybe"

*           *           *           *           *           *

It took me half an hour to listen to the account of Webb's meeting with the Director that morning. It took twenty minutes to for him to relay what he was being asked to do. It took forty minutes for me to suggest I help him out. It took two hours to have a bitch of an argument over it. It took 10 minutes for me to break up with him. It took 4 hours for us to apologise, half an hour to make up, and a further hour before I asked him to take me with him. 

It started over lunch, when I mentioned the Admiral had ripped into me that morning.

"Chegwidden wasn't happy about my little party with the press," I had informed him idly. It came during a break in conversation and was designed to interrupt the meaningful and uncomfortable silence that had settled across the table.

"Yeah, I've been there today too," Webb confessed, wincing slightly, "Tennet was not a happy camper this morning."

"Apparently he got a call from the President," I exhaled slowly, "So it looks like a court martial and a wave goodbye from the Corps for me."

"A wave goodbye? Jeez, you get a wave goodbye and you're complaining?"

"What happened to you?"

"Well it began at around 8 am this morning, when while I was doing some early morning paperwork I got a call from his secretary. Meeting with him at 9 o'clock. That was fine, I was expecting it. By 9 o'clock I was starting my mid-morning paperwork," he wrinkled his nose slightly, "I made it to the meeting by 5 past- fashionably late as they say. And yes, I showed up with an attitude. He was going to try to bulldoze me and I was not going to let him do it."

He relayed the conversation to me.

"WEBB, WHAT THE HELL?" Tennet bellowed, slamming the morning's paper on the desk in front of him.

_"Guess the press got a hold of a good story huh?" Webb replied tonelessly._

_"I'll say," replied the Director, "And I WONDER HOW?"_

_"Do you Sir?" Webb responded politely._

_"YES. DO YOU KNOW HOW THIS STORY BECAME A MORNING HEADLINE?"_

_"I'm not entirely certain how the Washington Post became informed Sir," the spook replied with true spook-honesty._

_"How in hell did you get that file for Miss Mackenzie Webb?"_

_"What file?"_

_"DON'T PLAY DUMB WITH ME!"_

_"Well Sir, it's a valid question. You see, I don't know which file you are referring to and which file you believe I gave to the Colonel. There are a lot of files here and there a lot of files on my desk, so which collection of paper were you were making indication of Sir?"_

_"THE INCIDENT REPORT ON RABB AND GRAHAM'S SCREW UP."_

_"Sir, don't you know those files were destroyed yesterday, along with a great deal of classified material. I'm surprised; that information is available to anyone with a valid agency employment number on the data base."_

_"HOW DID YOUR GIRLFRIEND GET THAT DAMN FILE WEBB?"_

_"Sir, with all due respect, Colonel Mackenzie, and I am assuming that is whom you refer to my your use of 'my girlfriend' was never in possession of the incident reports."_

_"YOU ARE TOO SMART FOR YOUR OWN GOOD WEBB!"_

_"Yes Sir."_

_"HOW DID SHE GET IT?"_

_"As I believe I have mentioned---"_

_"HOW DID SHE GET THE DAMNED PHOTOCOPY THEN?"_

_"She utilised her connections Sir. The Colonel is more than capable of finding the information she needs."_

_"HOW DID YOU HELP OR ASSIST HER?"_

_"I made a few phone calls Sir."_

_"TO WHOM?"_

_"Several people."_

_"WHO WEBB?"_

_"I contacted my contacts."_

_"ANSWER MY DAMN QUESTION!"_

_"I have Sir."_

_The Director surrendered this line of questioning in frustration._

_"DID YOU HAVE ANYTHING TO DO WITH THE MEDIA BEING INVOLVED IN THIS WEBB?"_

_He gulped, all out of half-truths, "I may have been a part of that Sir."_

_"ANSWER ME DIRECTLY WEBB. DID YOU OR DID YOU NOT INVOLVE THE MEDIA IN THIS, THIS---THING?"_

_"I did Sir."_

_"DID YOU MAKE THIS MESS?"_

_"Yes Sir."_

_"WELL THEN, YOU ARE GOING TO CLEAN IT UP."_

_"Excuse me Sir?"_

_"WEBB, WHILE YOU DESERVE TO BE A PAPERPUSHER FOR THE REST OF YOUR GOD DAMNED EXISTENCE, YOU ARE GOING TO FIX THIS, DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?"_

_"I don't think so Sir."_

_"AMERICA HATES ME. THIS WHOLE DAMN COUNTRY HATES ME. THE PRESIDENT IS CHEWING MY ASS BECAUSE OF IT. PEOPLE DON'T DISTINGUISH BETWEEN THE CIA AND THE WHITEHOUSE. HE IS PISSED OFF WEBB AND HE WANTS SOMETHING DONE ABOUT IT."_

_'Yes Sir."_

_"YOU ARE GOING TO CO-ORDINATE AN OPERATION THAT WILL SETTLE THE SHIT STORM YOU STIRRED."_

_"I am Sir?"  
  
_

_"YES YOU DAMNED WELL ARE!"_

The Director paused, red-faced and breathless collapsed in his chair and invited Webb to do the same.

_"There have been leaks Webb, you've read the reports, you must know. We have a mole. I need you to get Rabb and Graham back here, preferably not in body bags, but I need you to probe into the integrity of our people in the region. Intelligence from Afghanistan has come into our office in Kabul and gone out the door with the highest bidder. That used to be us and everything was peachy, but that's changed. There are more leaks in that agent network than in damned colander. I want you to fix it."_

_"Me Sir?"_

_"No, the person sitting behind you. Yes Webb, you damnit."_

_"Why me Sir?"_

_"Because, you deserve some hard labour after that fuck up in South America. This is not going to be easy. You're up against damned near impossible odds, you can't trust anyone, you can't make anyone suspicious, you've got to play the politics and you've got to handle the press. And I assure you, the media can, and will, be a bitch."_

_"I know Sir."_

_"Honestly, when you screw this up I will have a reason to fire you. Besides, there's the remote possibility that you'll pull it off, which would be great for my reputation. Then I'll have a reason to promote you and assign you to a far off corner of the globe were I will not have to drag your happy ass into my office to kick it into line every morning. Do you understand me?"_

_"Yes Sir."_

_Both men rose and Webb turned to leave, dreading what was sure to be a (another) failed operation. He was mentally conceiving the beginning of his multi-million dollar business empire. It would start with a best-selling self-help novel: Fucking up CIA Ops 101. Then--- _

_"I know you think this is a fucked up op, and I'm giving it to you because we've got some shit to settle since you got my ass kicked over Paraguay," the Director began, and Webb, distracted from his thoughts, turned to face him again, "That ain't true. Sure, it's punishment in part, but it's also a test. You wanna salvage the wreckage of your career? Get Rabb and Graham's asses back here in one piece, have them smile for the papers then escort them to my office where I can rip them a new one. You pick your own team. Do what you want. I don't care. You make the calls. But Webb?"_

_"Yes Sir?"_

_"You fuck this up and you won't just be pushing paper in Mozambique or worse, you will be on unemployment, you understand me?"_

_"Perfectly Sir."_

_"Good. Get your ass moving. I have a press conference in 20 minutes and I wanna be able to truthfully say my people are on it."_

_"Yes Sir."_

Lunch had ended rather uneventfully. It was that evening, when I arrived home to find him there, that the events started. First, he told me he had to go. He couldn't tell me where and he didn't know how long, but he was going. I'd been expecting this. I asked him to tell me. He refused. Twenty minutes later, his reasoning was finished and I was annoyed.

"So what, you're just going to walk out and get on a plane to somewhere and not even tell me, not even call me for I don't know how long?"  I asked.

"Sarah, you know the deal. We've talked about this."

"No, we have never talked about this. Clay, you've told me about your little operation, why don't you just tell me how long you're going to be away?"

"Because I don't know. This could take days, weeks, months even. I don't know how long I'll be gone and I'm not going to promise you anything."

"Clay!"

"What do you want me to say? You know I am legally bound to keep specifics confidential. You're a lawyer and a Marine Corps officer, surely you understand that."

"I understand that perfectly," I snapped.

"I think you're pushing another agenda here Sarah. You are not normally like this. This little possessive-girlfriend charade you are pulling is not you. What do you want?"

"Excuse me?"

"What do you want?"

"You think it's unreasonable for me to want to know how long you will be gone? I am not asking you for specifics, I want to know if you'll be coming back and if--- there are a lot of ifs with us and you know that. I want to think about where this relationship is headed. If you're shipping out for a while, then I have to consider my priorities."

"We both know where your priorities lie," he said quietly and evenly.

"Are you implying something?" I retorted, raising my voice a little.

"No, I am stating facts. What's your little goal for this discussion Sarah?"

"I don't have an agenda with you Webb, I really don't. I just---"

"Don't lie to me."

"I'm not!" I protested.

"You are!"

"I repeat- what do you want?"

"I want you to take me with you."

Where had that come from? Yes, I was pushing this agenda, but no way in hell had I intended to _admit_ that.

"You know I can't do that."

"Yes you can."

"No I can't. As much as I would love to have you with me, it's too dangerous. I am not risking your life again, you mean too much to me."

"That is five star bullshit," I replied sardonically.

"I cannot take me with you because I need highly-qualified people in there Sarah---"

"So I'm not good enough for your little team?"

"No—I mean yes--- I mean, no you are, but you're not a spook. You're just not. You've got your strengths in the field, that's why I took you to Paraguay, but-"

"But what?"

"Afghanistan is not Paraguay Sarah. This is not going to be simple. We are talking hardcore undercover here. You have not been trained for that."

"You've put me through enough crazy missions that I'm sure I'm qualified," I notified him.

"I can't take you and you know that."

"I thought you said Tennet said you could pick your own team?"

"He did, but that's not the point. I can't take you because it would be unprofessional and detrimental to the overall effectiveness of the operation."

"How?"

"You're my girlfriend!"

"Really?" I raised an eyebrow, "That's presumptuous."

"Oh, so now we're not seeing each other any more?"

"Well we're not going to are we?" I shot back louder than necessary.

"Sarah---"

"No, you're going away for who knows how long, I've got a court martial coming my way, we're both going to be too busy for each other. Why don't we call it quits?"

"Because those are not your reasons," he intoned quietly.

"WHO ARE YOU TO SAY WHAT MY REASONS ARE?"

"ARE YOU BREAKING UP WITH ME?"

"YES!"

"FINE!"

He stalked out and slammed the door without a word.

"FINE!" I yelled after him, shedding a few tears and wandering over the couch absently before reminding myself that it had been my decision and I had no reason to cry. I did anyway.

Fifteen minutes later I decided to call him.

He didn't answer.

I threw the phone down, "Well if that's the way you want it."

Five minutes later I called him again.

He didn't answer.

I stared at the phone in my hands and cursed quietly.

Ten minutes after that I called him a third time.

  
Predictably, he didn't answer.

I left a short message, apologised, threw the phone across the room in anger, lay on the couch and fell asleep.

Three hours and forty minutes later a soft tap interrupted my dream. As I stirred I became aware of a faint thudding noise. Fading into consciousness, the noise grew louder. I eventually realised there was someone knocking at the door. Sitting up slowly, I meandered down the hall to answer it. 

  
It was Webb.

"Sarah-" he began.

I silenced him, "Come in."

"We need to talk," he announced.

"We talked," I replied evasively, returning the couch and pulling a cushion into my lap.

"No, we yelled."

"Yeah, we did that too."

"I'm sorry- I shouldn't have said---"

"No, I did most of the talking," I interrupted, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have--- I shouldn't have made a decision like that for both of us, especially when I was mad at you."

"You were right," he conceded, "I've been thinking about it and you were right."

I hugged the cushion vehemently.

"Sit down," I patted the space next to me.

"No, I'd better go."

"No," I objected, "I didn't mean what I said."

"I'm going to be gone a while, and you're right, we're not going to see each other. I won't get much chance to socialise, but if you- if you want to see other people then---"

"I don't want to see other people Clay."

He sat beside me.

"What do you want?"

"I want to come with you, I really do."

He opened his mouth, but a raised a hand, motioning for him to stop, "It's Ok if you can't take me. But I want you know that I want to help out. I want to do something."

"So what are you going to do while I'm gone?"

"I'll wait for you."

"I don't want to go you know," he murmured softly, "It will be dangerous. It's more a suicide mission than anything else. Just the Director's way of getting rid of me really."

"Clay, everything will be fine."

"No, it probably won't be. I want you to understand that now."

"Everything will be fine," I repeated.

"You don't honestly believe that everything will be the way it was if- if I fail, then you'll lose--- you'll lose pretty much everything you appear to think is of any value in your life. If I succeed," he paused, "Then everything will not be fine."

"What do you mean?"

"If I succeed, if I manage to bring Rabb and Graham home, then you and I both know things will change."

"They don't have to."

"Who are you trying to fool- me or you?"

"Excuse me?"

"You are in love with him. That little fact will have some serious ramifications in our relationship."

"Who said I loved him?"

"Sometimes people don't have to say things," he stopped, inhaled, as though trying to put into words what he was thinking, "Language is a strange medium of communication and it can be spoken in different ways. You are in love with him, and he is in love with you and you are the only two people in the world who can't see that. It's so obvious. You don't have to say it- the way you look at him says it. You don't have to use English to express it- your reactions to everything he does are a language of their own. I don't necessarily think that is a bad thing---"

I opened my mouth but realised he wasn't finished.

"But I don't necessarily think that it's a good thing either. Rabb is a world-class idiot, to let a woman like you be with a man like me. He is too stubborn and too stupid to see what is right in front of him, and I know his idiocy hurts you. If I ever get some decent alone time with him, I will tell him that and either he will see sense, or I will beat some sense into him. I don't know what you want from him, I don't know if you can work something out with him. That's none of my business unless you want to tell me. But Sarah, please, for the love of God, if do succeed, work something out with him- either start something or end something, but either way, figure this out."

"You don't know I love him."

"Yes I do. You don't know you love him."

"I think I know my own mind."

"But you've yet to discover your own heart."

"Damn you Clay, you want to end this?"

"End what?"

"Us."

"I know you are trained to kill, which is why I will not say 'what us?' at this point in time. But honestly, no, I do not want to end this. It's crazy, it's stupid and it's really strange for me, but for whatever reason, I want to be with you."

"Only because of Paraguay."

"No, only because I am in love with you."

"Only because of Paraguay."

"Sarah- don't try and figure that out. It's too complicated- like the chicken and the egg, which came first? I don't know. All I know is, without any logical justification, I am in love with you. I know that doesn't mean you love me. I want to be with you, I know that doesn't mean you want to be with me. Personally, I'd prefer you to be happy. And yes, that is in part 'only because of Paraguay' without the only. I've done some really low things in my career, but I would never wish anything but happiness for the people who I've depended on. But you are right. Because of Paraguay I want you to be happy, because I--- because I caused you a lot of pain- and not just physically. I don't know what happened with you and Rabb, I really don't- a combination of the meds and not wanting to find out. What I do know is you guys didn't walk away hand in hand into the sunset. I am not going to go there with you other than to say that was the logical progression from the situation. I don't know why it didn't happen but I know it hurt you and I know that I am, at least in part, responsible for that. I also made you live in that hellhole. I didn't want you to hear any of what you heard, I didn't want you to see any of what you saw. You should not have had to see or hear any of that- the deaths, the screams, the torture. No one should have to witness those things," he breathed in deeply, "But I made you go and I made you witness those things. Not personally, but by default. Don't argue with me, you know I'm right. So I'm sorry for what happened in Paraguay. I respect you more than I ever did because of what you went through. I will do anything to make it up to you. If that means walking away from this so you can be happy with someone else- even if it is a blind suffer of insanity like Rabb- then I will do it and I won't complain and I will respect your decision, no matter how difficult it is for me. I was so selfish bringing you to Paraguay. It was an awful thing to do and it was only for my benefit. So don't accuse me of being righteous by saying that I would give you up- one small act of selflessness is not really enough penance for what I have done to people throughout the years, you not excluded."

"Don't feel guilty about Paraguay Clay. I went. I didn't have to go."

"But I was responsible."

"One thing you will have to learn to understand about me is that I am a Marine. As you mentioned before I am trained to kill and I can take care of myself. Saying that you are or were responsible for anything that happens to me is an insult to my capabilities and aptitudes. I don't need you Clayton Webb, just so you know. You are not responsible for me, nor is there any need for you to protect me. Do you wish to argue with that?"

"No," he responded wisely.

"Then there is no reason to feel guilty about what happened."

"I still do."

"I know, you shouldn't. You also shouldn't tell me who I am and am not in love with. I don't know if I do love Harm. It's more complicated than that. I do know that I like being with you, I thought I loved you after Paraguay, but I'm not sure. Like you said- the chicken and the egg. It's confusing, it's blurred and I don't know what to think right now. I do know that you are here saying all the right things. I mean it when I say I love you but I don't know if I am 'in love' with you or whether I am falling 'in love' with you or whether I just love you. You might see that as a reason to end this, but I don't. I don't want to end this and we are not going to end this today. If I have to I will wait for you."

"You feel in debt to me and I feel in debt to you," he said suddenly, as if it were a realisation.

"No, it's more than that," I argued, "Yes, I am endlessly grateful for what you did for me in Paraguay. There is no need to make amends, you already have. Yes you may have been selfish in taking me there, but you screwed up and you fixed up your screw up. You gave yourself up for me and I am thankful for that. You not only saved my life, you also spared me a fate worse than death really. I know what they were going to do with me. You know what they were going to do with me. So forget doing anything to make it up to me. You already have at least a thousand times over. But there is more to it than that. You remember when I got there? We talked Clay. We actually talked. We had a conversation. Do you know how much I missed conversations? Like real, honest conversations without hidden implications or past hurts- a discussion without constantly having to analyse the other person's motives or elicit the true meaning of their words? I can talk to you. I can tell you things. You don't judge me. You quite freely accept that I have strong feelings for my best friend- feelings that might but will probably not lead me away from you. For a spook, you are a pretty amazing guy. So it's not just gratitude. I am at least a bit in love with you and probably a whole lot more than I am willing to admit."

"Why?"

"Because it's hard for me to fall in love with people. I usually try and--- keep people at bay. I don't let them see who I really am very often. I mask my true feelings and emotions because I don't like how they affect my judgement and how they make me feel. Admittedly there have been some people- Harm not excluded- that have somehow managed to get past all those defence mechanisms. And once that happens, I usually let myself love them, but it takes a long time for me to get to that point where I am not afraid, when I let down my guard. I can't promise you it will happen, it probably will, because one day you'll talk it out of me, but sometimes it never does. I have had lots of men leave me because of it but I cannot help it. If you are willing to stick around for the ride we might end up somewhere, I don't know where but I can assure you, it will be one hell of a journey."

"That I'll believe."

"Not I said something then and it is true so I will repeat it. This, this--- thing will Harm and I will probably end as uneventfully as it started. We're not your happily ever after type and it will end in tears. I'm not even sure I'm willing to put myself up for it. There was a time when I was in love with him, I won't deny that, but he has hurt me too many times for me to be able to say that now. I think I am in love with him Clay, but as I said, it is more complicated than that."

"How?"

"Because I am tired of waiting for something to happen between us. There's a lot of potential there, as you said, we're probably the only two people in the world who don't think we're in love with each other. But neither of us is willing to step backward and neither is willing to step forward. We've been dancing around each other for years- our metaphor for our relationship- the dance. But we're both sick of it, so we've stopped. Now we have no idea what to do with each other. If we're not dancing, what are we doing? It's either nothing or something but at the moment it is nothing and it will probably stay nothing. His reasons I don't understand. From what I have been able to decipher he is afraid of loving me because he thinks he will lose me and, doing some severe reading between the lines, thinks I ended it in Paraguay. My reasons are a lot simpler- I don't want to deal with his insecurities again, I don't want to sacrifice my pride for nothing, I don't want to get involved again, and all of that because I do not want to get hurt again. It's really very simple. He is afraid of losing me and I am afraid of having him because I know he will not be unreserved."

"Oh." 

"But I still have to find him," I whispered quietly, "I want to come."

He began another long explanation.

"Sarah, you know I think you are capable and that you would be a fine addition to any team I get together, but you also know that we are involved. You've been around intelligence long enough to know that you have to be objective in the field. You're also involved with Rabb and that is downright deadly in covert rescue ops. You're a marine. You're trained to storm beaches, to hold tactical positions- to fight. You prefer the overt approach. This is not what we will be using here. There will be no one going in weapons blazing. You've read the mission details; you know that there is another op in the region. They were gathering specific intelligence about a known terrorist training cell that has been really busy lately. We can't just go in, guns blazing and shoot 'em all. It's not going to happen overnight. We're gonna move slowly, get some good solid intel, and we can't trust the CIA in the region either. I have to insert at least two agents into the area, not only to get Rabb and Graham back, but also to investigate our boys. I don't want to suspect them, but we know there was a leak. That means someone is a double agent and we don't know whom. Furthermore, we have to pretend we're utilising all our resources in the area otherwise whoever it is will suspect something. It's going to be dangerous, painstaking and risky. I don't want you to be involved."

"Because you think I can't take care of myself?"

"Because I don't want too much déjà vu on this op."

"A Paraguay repeat?"

"Something like that."

"But we agreed I am capable of holding my own."

"Yes we did."

"We agreed you don't have to protect me."

"We did that too."

"We agreed that you don't have to feel guilty."

"I know."

"And we agreed that you don't have any debt to repay."

"No we didn't."

"Then repay me," I pleaded in a whisper, "Do this for me."

"Don't bully me into a mistake Sarah."

"You feel in debt to me. Make it up to me the way I want you to. Clay, I don't want you to walk away from me, that is no compensation for what happened. I want you to take me with you so I can settle a debt of my own and get rid of some of my own guilt. Clay, you know how I feel, please, you know how hard it is to live with that sought of feeling in your stomach. Please, I am begging you, and take a photograph cuz Marines don't beg very often- please do this for me. If you feel that you are in debt to me, settle it- here and now- by saying you will take me with you."

"Sarah- you know I can't refuse you, but I can't accept your offer either."

"Please? Look, I can help you. You know I can help you. You said yourself that I have my advantages in the field. I have a lot of advantages in this situation and you know it. Firstly, I can speak and understand Farsi, which is from the same root language as Dari. Secondly, I know and appreciate the Middle Eastern culture. Thirdly, I am a battle-trained Marine. I can use weapons, I can think on my feet and I can defend myself. Fourthly, I am a woman and that means that it will be a lot easier to go unnoticed within the society we are talking about. And most importantly, you can trust me. Didn't you say that you needed people you could trust? People that weren't involved in the leaks? I am not CIA; I am not even intelligence. I am not remotely involved and you can trust me. Yes, there are other reasons I am asking you to take me, but those are the reasons you should take me. You also said that I would be a valuable member of any team. So please, because I am asking you to do something that will ease both our consciences and be a benefit to us both, please take me with you."

"Ok," he surrendered, "Ok, I will see if I can place you on the team. But Sarah, Mac- I will call you that when we're working and it has nothing to do with you, but it is a way of keeping professional and personal separate- Mac, I won't take you if you don't make the grade. I'm serious. You want to be a part of it? Fine, you have convinced me to give you as much consideration as any other who expresses interest, but if you don't cut it, I will not take you and it will be nothing personal. Also, it will be nothing personal. I will give you orders, I will tell you to do things you and I will not like and you will find yourself playing a whole new ball game. Whatever happens, I want to be assured that you understand this is work not play, that I will treat you exactly the same as every member of my team regardless of where we stand personally."

"I didn't expect anything less Webb. And I will call you that while we're working too, because otherwise lines could get blurry out there."

"Yes they could and I am afraid of that. I don't want to worry about fucking this thing with you up as well as the fucking the op up. If you can't tell me that you will not take it personally, then I will not take you."

"It's nothing personal," I informed him lightly.

"And lastly," he sucked in a breath, "Lastly, if this is how you want me to pay you back Sarah, then fine, I will pay you back. But then the score will be even. I will not be pushed into favours like this every time your flyboy thinks he wants to crash a God damned aircraft. Furthermore, the offer I made previously will not stand as it was. I will not walk away without asking questions. The option remains for you to end this, to end 'us' now. I probably won't take you to Afghanistan if you do, and you know that, but you can still do it. When and if, I stress the if, we come back and you do decide that you want something rather than nothing with Rabb, then I will fight for you. Unlike him, I am not willing to let you walk out the door without a decent dispute. I will not sit back and watch you go, I will not take no for an answer and I will not have to like you decisions. I will still respect them, because I respect you, but I also love you and make no mistake Sarah, I want to be with you. If you have a problem with my conditions, then fine, you do not have to accept them. But it is my op and I write the terms of service. Accept or decline?"

I regarded him with a blank stare for a long moment, "I accept."

"Then welcome aboard, it's gonna be one bitch of a journey." 

I was uneasy about his terms and conditions. I wasn't sure who had won and who had lost or whether it was mutually acceptable agreement in which no one was disadvantaged. It was unusual, being in a position where no one was on top, where there was no struggle of wills, no argument. I didn't like it. Maybe I was refuting my own logic, but maybe the age old who's on top argument saves relationships rather than kills them. Maybe, just maybe.

And if that's the case, then who is better at having that argument than Harm and I?

Maybe Webb was right. Maybe I do love him.

I laughed at that thought and Webb looked at me inquiringly. I just put a hand to my mouth and silenced myself.

There really was no maybe about that at all.

*           *           *           *           *           *

  
  



	6. CHAPTER3: Flying In A Storm

**_"CHAPTER THREE: Flying Through A Storm"_**

* * *

_A/N:_ So it's been a while. Apologies to all those who've been waiting and thanks for the kind words. They really are appreciated. This chapter may be a bit flashback-y because it's 1am and I don't feel like going into sordid details which will be entirely fictional. I honestly have no idea what they do before the CIA does its thing in country.

* * *

Whoever said half the fun was in getting there clearly hasn't endured the process of being trained and screened to participate in a CIA operation led by Clayton Webb, all the while being teased about being the ringleader's girl and therefore not taken seriously in the slightest, has never had to explain to her already pissed off CO why she'll be leaving JAG to run off with the CIA (again, and after the last time was a complete fuck-up no less), and then boarded a J-model C-130 at 1am to be tossed around in turbulence for the whole trip.  
  
Looking around the gut of the aircraft and yawning, I saw Petty Officer Mohammed- a corpsman- sleeping, stretched out across the seating arrangements under the windows, enjoying the comforts of military travel. The sky was black outside, clouds occasionally obscuring the ebony view. We had flown through a storm just after leaving the States and my stomach had never full recovered. Ryan Hawkes was still sitting next to me, and had abandoned all attempts to make me feel less sick after realising they were futile.  
  
Emil Jackson, a spook, and Webb were huddled in one corner, discussing tactics presumably. Whatever it was, it didn't sound thrilling. Alexander Princeton and Michael James, Webb's two favourite analysts from Langley were in the "spy" group. Despite the fact that all of us within the aircraft's pressurised fuselage were part of the operation, the spooks liked to stick together.  
  
Hawkes, Mohammed and I were always left out of the kind of discussion they were presently having. Hawkes was FBI, in on the op because Webb had picked up a report on his counter-terrorism work. Mohammed was a Navy Corpsmen who saw action in Kosovo. His background and knowledge of country and culture what scored him a ticket on this bird. And me? To my knowledge I was the only one who had talked my way into it.  
  
It was a bizarre group and it had been a bizarre couple of days. Four days ago, I requested leave for personal reasons and drove out to Langley for the day (and night as it later turned out) to meet Webb and his team.  
  
"So you're Sarah Mackenzie?"  
  
I just nodded.  
  
"Colonel in the Marines," Webb announced, walking up behind me.  
  
Michael James raised his eyes brows and offered a low whistle.  
  
Desperate to get a word in, I replied, "Careful, I bite back."  
  
"Could you wait here a second?" Clay asked me distractedly.  
  
As they walked off I heard James mutter, "You scored their Sir."  
  
I scowled.  
  
The day had progressively got worse. The briefs were boring- nothing I hadn't heard before. For the most part, the company left a lot to be desired, and the food really sucked.  
  
"How can you eat this stuff?" Hawkes muttered, pushing his plate away.  
  
"I never knew a cop who refused food of any nature before," Mohammed responded.  
  
"Yeah well, you don't look hard enough."  
  
I rolled my eyes, they'd been griping over trivialities all day, "So, why are you two here?" I asked, bored beyond belief.  
  
They exchanged looks, "We got calls Ma'am."  
  
I glared.  
  
"I've just about had with everyone around here giving me looks like I slept my way onto this op."  
  
They both looked at me, with "You mean you didn't?" faces that made me want to introduce both of them to the garish shade of green carpet Langley had picked for its cafeteria.  
  
"Take me seriously. Just because I wear a skirt doesn't mean I can't hold my own."  
  
"Yes Ma'am," they both replied.  
  
"Jerks," I muttered under my breath and walked away.  
  
After lunch Clay decided he wanted to know if we could shoot, which was fine with me. I knew there had to be perks to this spy crap somewhere. Mohammed had gone first, with a score that my grandmother could beat. In his defence, he was a squid. Jackson shot one-handed at first and after missing twice decided to stop acting like James Bond. I wouldn't make him a sniper if you paid me, but he wasn't bad. Good for cover fire- the kind where you don't actually have to hit anything. The FBI agent had said he was a killer shot, and didn't disappoint. His had been the highest score before my turn. I won, naturally. Naturally none of them could believe it.  
  
"Man," Hawkes groaned in defeat, "Woman, you can shoot."  
  
I shrugged, "What do you think we do in the Marines? Teach people how to knit?"  
  
"You know I always thought you were just here..."  
  
I rolled my eyes, "Because I'm sleeping with the boss."  
  
"Well yeah, but after that, I change my mind."  
  
"So because I can aim a weapon at a target and pull a trigger you like me?"  
  
"Nah, that requires no skill. It's because you can aim a weapon at a target, pull the trigger and hit the target that I like you."  
  
"Hi, I'm Sarah Mackenzie."  
  
"Ryan Hawkes, nice to meet you."  
  
"Same to you."  
  
"You've got a head on your shoulders."  
  
I shrugged, "I was beginning to think yours was otherwise occupied, but since that attitude problem is in the past..."  
  
"Hey, I can't believe you haven't already kicked my ass into next week for that crap."  
  
"Hey, we have something in common."  
  
That was the start of people taking me seriously. I was beginning to see the reason the FBI and the Marines share Quantico. Hawkes and I thought alike, although he was a field thinker. I was just a thinker. Nevertheless, we got along well after that. He quit it with "the Marine that's screwing Webb" deal too, to his better fortune. I couldn't say the same for Mohammed at that point. He was being a typical sailor (read: jerk) right up until Clay said the words "self-defence" and put me against the Petty Officer with the instructions "show me what you know." It was time to put the Navy in its place, in true Marine style.  
  
"Jesus fucking Christ, what did you do to me?"  
  
"Time out, Mac, what the hell did you just do?" Clay called from a bench a few metres away.  
  
He fucking asked for it sugar.  
  
I raised a hand to my mouth to hide the small smile playing at my lips, "Oops."  
  
"Fuck," the Petty Officer sprawled on the floor in front of me groaned.  
  
Not that Mohammed didn't deserve a kick in the pants, but maybe taking things literally was a bit harsh. After all, all rumours say it hurts more than any pain imaginable. And seeing the way he grimaced, I felt a little sorry for him.  
  
Offering a hand, I bent down to speak to him, "Here, get up off the floor."  
  
"Ow, Ma'am?"  
  
"Yes Petty Officer?"  
  
"I take back everything I ever said against women in the field, but please promise me you won't do that again."  
  
"Will I have to prove myself to you again?"  
  
"No way Ma'am, as far as I'm concerned, I want you on my side."  
  
"You're a wise man Petty Officer."  
  
"A smart ass Gunny once told me you should never mess with a Marine."  
  
"You believe him?"  
  
"No Ma'am, not then. Now? That was probably the one thing that guy said that wasn't bullshit."  
  
I laughed, "No hard feelings right?"  
  
"Nah, just bruises Ma'am."  
  
"Don't go there Petty Officer."  
  
Monday through Wednesday had reminded me how much I hate Langley. Webb told us all to go home and sleep on Wednesday night, but there is no rest for the wicked apparently. I spent all of Thursday trying to rid myself of the paperwork that plagued every aspect of my existence at JAG, the Admiral prying for information as to where I'd been all week and why Webb was hanging around a dingy corner of the bull pen.  
  
"Colonel, there's someone here to see you," my CO announced, after calling me to his office.  
  
"Sir?"  
  
Last time I checked I didn't take my appointments in Chegwidden's office.  
  
"Webb has been hanging around my office all day. I don't know what he wants, but get him out of here."  
  
I was a bit taken aback by the fact that everyone in Washington seemed to know I was dating Webb, but nodded, "Yes Sir."  
  
"Actually Admiral," Clay drawled from behind, "I'm not here to see her. I'm here to see you about her."  
  
My CO glared at the spook, "Oh?" he pushed his chair away from his desk and looked from me to Webb, "Why do I feel outnumbered here?"  
  
"I'd like to borrow Mac for a while."  
  
"After what happened last time? Forget it."  
  
"Sir please, if you just give me some leave" I began, stopping short when he shot me a look.  
  
"I get the distinct feeling of deja vu. I remember the last time one of my officers ran off with the CIA and things went south, Rabb was in here asking for leave," he paused, "And you know what I told him."  
  
"I have a letter ready Sir."  
  
"Colonel, sit down."  
  
"Sir?"  
  
"Do I have to make it an order?"  
  
I took a seat.  
  
"Think about this for a second Colonel."  
  
"I've already thought about it. It comes down to one thing: my best friend is out there somewhere suffering God knows what at the hands of some barbaric... monsters and I'll be damned, Paraguay or no, if I don't go after him. It's that simple Sir."  
  
"I can't let you go."  
  
"Sir..."  
  
"That doesn't mean I don't want to let you go, but consider the lesson learned, this office is no longer an affiliate of the CIA."  
  
"Sir, with all due respect, if you don't let me go, I'll go anyway."  
  
"Mac," he said softly, and I looked up in surprise, "I didn't expect anything less," my CO sighed, "Webb."  
  
"Yes Admiral?" Webb replied, jumping at the two star's sudden bark.  
  
"Close the door behind you."  
  
"Admiral?"  
  
"I said go away, don't make me call security."  
  
"I'm gone AJ."  
  
"Good."  
  
I turned to watch the door closed.  
  
"There's one thing about you and Rabb, when one is in trouble the other is always ready to follow," he folded his hands and looked down at something on his desk.  
  
"Not always Sir," I murmured, more to myself than him. I hadn't been a good friend to him over the past year.  
  
"Mac, it's your crusade, not mine. But be safe and... while it's not any of my business, get your damn personal life sorted out."  
  
"Sir?"  
  
"You didn't see him when you were in Paraguay. I... I was tempted to let him go, he was useless here. Harriet said he stopped sleeping. He was a wreck without you. I've never seen anything, much less anyone, have an affect on that man in that way."  
  
I swallowed, "I... I guess I know how he must've felt."  
  
"Then if you know why, don't you think it might be time to do something about it?"  
  
"Sir?"  
  
He just raised an eyebrow at me, "I'm in no position to comment any further."  
  
"Should I give you my letter Sir?"  
  
"I'll see what I can do Colonel."  
  
"Yes Sir."  
  
"And Colonel?"  
  
"Sir?"  
  
"When you find him, tell him from me that we need to talk about this job of his."  
  
"Yes Sir."  
  
Chegwidden had taken it better than I thought he would. In the end, the letter of resignation never moved off my desk. I never gave it to him. Webb was usually pretty good at pulling strings, but Kershaw was the master. Within hours the Admiral had me back in his office, scowling about the fax from the DCI's office, but his eyes had been smiling. That was the highlight of my day. It only got worse from there. Around lunchtime, Webb left, only to return hours later to drag me from my office without so much as a word. All he would tell me is that he needed a female operative and still wasn't sure whether I was cut out for Afghanistan. I knew him better than that. He wasn't testing my skills, he was testing my willingness to take his crap. When we arrived at our destination, a run-down suburban apartment, I decided I had to take it.  
  
"We need to gather some other intelligence before we go in country," Webb explained, "We're starting here tonight and this will be your final test. The others will all be ready by next Monday. You're the last to qualify before I go to the reserves so get it right, I don't want to spend my weekend finding another member for my team."  
  
"Ok," I nodded.  
  
He led me up the stairs of a old-looking suburban apartment. Opening the door and gesturing for me to enter, he stood at the doorway looking at the woman who met him. She was of medium height and build, with dark brown hair and piercing brown eyes. Her dark skin was contrasted by pale sweater which read 'Guns don't kill, I do'. I stared at her in much the same way as Webb, my mouth opening slightly and my hand rising to cover it.  
  
Then, as soon as the moment had of awkward silence started it was finished with Webb finally shutting the door on the cold Autumn air and launching into the introductions, "Hallie, this is Sarah Mackenzie, Lt Colonel, USMC. She's helping me out on the op."  
  
"Your big op?" Hallie teased.  
  
"Yeah, she'll need some assistance. This is her final test. She's had some field experience but-"  
  
"Yeah, yeah, I read the brief," Hallie cut him off, punctuating her sentence with a loud 'pop' as a bubble of pink gum burst, attaching itself to the corners of her perfectly shaped rose-coloured mouth.  
  
"Good, then you know what I want you to do," Webb stated, "I'll leave you ladies to it."  
  
"Right," the other woman replied turning her back on Webb, who subsequently wandered down the hallway and into a room at the back of the apartment, clearly gone for the duration of whatever I would be doing tonight, "You ready for your first recon op in a church?"  
  
I didn't trust her.  
  
"What do you mean?" I asked warily.  
  
"Spooky spider didn't give you details then?"  
  
I was slowly becoming accustomed to the many nicknames Webb had acquired in the field- he'd been labelled everything from 'that jerk' to 'King Clay' and I was not surprised at this new addition to the long list of pseudonyms. This one at least made some sense to the average person, some of them were just plain weird.  
  
"No."  
  
"Well, we've got to go into the mosque across the street and suss out two new arrivals from Saudi Arabia."  
  
"Suspects?"  
  
"Linked to al-Qaida."  
  
"Proof?"  
  
"Nothing conclusive, but we're working on their paper trail. Their charity is a front for a terrorist backing and recruiting agency. Financial connection. Unfortunately for them we noticed a great deal of money being transferred to banks in South America. Thanks to your little stint in Paraguay we've busted 'em pretty bad down there."  
  
"Ok," I nodded, processing the information instantly.  
  
"We don't why they're in the States, but we don't intend to let 'em leave."  
  
I nodded again.  
  
"Here," she threw me a plastic shopping bag, "Get changed. There's a veil and all that jazz in there. Make sure none of your hair is showing etc etc so on so forth. Webb said you knew Middle Eastern culture. I hope you do cuz you don't want to draw any attention to yourself in there."  
  
"Alright."  
  
She ushered me into a small bathroom and closed the door. When I was dressed, I stepped into the hall to find her sporting the same style of clothing.  
  
"Good, we're ready," she half-smiled in approval. Speaking into a small, barely visible mouthpiece that was taped to her cheek she said, "Webb, Mackenzie and I are ready to roll."  
  
I didn't hear the reply because the ear piece was in her ear.  
  
"Yeah, he says Ok," she informed me, throwing me another radio.  
  
"Put it on," she instructed, "Doesn't have a mouthpiece but you'll be able to hear what's going on, which is important."  
  
With little help, I managed to slide the device into place beneath the long veil of black cloth.  
  
"Webb's got a team ready in case we need some ammunition."  
  
"What, we're going in unarmed?" I inquired sceptically.  
  
"This is a covert operations." She responded.  
  
I eyed distrustfully.  
  
"How old are you?" I asked suddenly, realising what it was that was making me uneasy about her.  
  
She shrugged, "My files says I'm 29."  
  
"No way in hell are you 29."  
  
"No," she agreed, "I'm not. I'm a 20 year old bitch from Dallas with one heck on an attitude. Barely finished high school, had tonnes of college offers, told 'em all to take a hike. Webb here caught me in the wrong place at the right time when I was 18. We altered my birth cert and jazzed up my qualifications and here I am."  
  
I stared at her, "You obtained employment under false pretences?"  
  
She gesticulated with her shoulders, "No one cares as long as I do my job. I'm good at what I do, the best shot in this joint."  
  
"So how'd you convince Clay to lie for you? Are you involved with him or something?"  
  
"I hear that's your department Colonel. Me? I did Clayton a few favours back when he was in that legendary partnership with Phillips."  
  
"Who?"  
  
"Just Webb's ex-partner---" she didn't finish the sentence.  
  
"What happened?"  
  
"I don't know. Mackenzie, let's get this show on the road."  
  
"Sure."  
  
"Heard you had some linguistic talents."  
  
"Farsi."  
  
"Good for shit all in there but listen out, you'll catch some of the Arabic."  
  
"You?"  
  
"Fluent."  
  
"Family connection?"  
  
"Nah, these looks are African, just picked it up. I have a brain for languages."  
  
"Oh."  
  
"Yeah, technically I'm a 'translator'. The directors office doesn't know I translate in the field and not at a desk yet."  
  
"Should I trust you?"  
  
"Definitely not," she assured me, "This is the world of intelligence, trust no one."  
  
"Have you got my back?"  
  
"If you've got mine. Seriously, I'm not about to get Webb's plaything killed. Last time that happened someone got a new rear orifice."  
  
I ignored her degrading label of 'plaything' and decided to cure my own curiosity, "It's happened before?"  
  
"Later Mac, we've got work to do."  
  
"Sure thing."  
  
"Maybe you shouldn't trust me, but you can," she added.  
  
"I can look after myself."  
  
"This ain't a battlefield Jarhead. This is a whole new set of games."  
  
I swore I would hate spy games forever after Paraguay. That night had just reaffirmed the strength of my conviction. To say it had gone south would've been an understatement.  
  
"What was all this about a covert operation?" I screamed at Hallie, another round from an AK-47 slamming into the ornate artwork above my head, "Last time I checked, 'covert' didn't involve bullets."  
  
"Shit, you think this is my idea of fun?"  
  
I swore as the pot plant next to be shattered, "Tell me again why we're not getting the hell out of here?"  
  
"We have to wait for the signal."  
  
"Oh, here I was thinking we were asking for a bullet in the chest. My mistake."  
  
"I thought you were a Marine."  
  
"I am. We know when to retreat."  
  
"Jesus Christ Webb, get us out of here," she yelled above the noise.  
  
"You know," I began, "We're not really in a good place right now. Rumour has it standing in between two groups of people with automatic rifles who are firing at each other isn't a smart idea."  
  
"WEBB! Your woman has an attitude problem."  
  
If it weren't for the extenuating circumstances, I would've made her plastic surgeon rich after the nasal reconstruction.  
  
Webb of course thought the night was a raging success. The terrorists had escaped the mosque, but were intercepted on their way to Dulles. The information they had given us was the closest thing to gold in the way of intelligence. Two diamonds had been missing after Paraguay. In terrorist currency, that was a shit load of money, or a lot of weapons. His analysts had spent all night pouring over documents and looking at transactions from certain European bank accounts to other bank accounts the world over, trying to find some pattern. Hallie had gone home, but since Webb had given me a ride out and my car was still at JAG, I was forced to sit around being bored and drinking bad coffee.  
  
"Heard you got freaked in there for a while," Emil Jacobs addressed me, handing me another mug filled with a watery brown liquid that looked less than appetising. And I thought the Navy made pathetic coffee.  
  
"Me?" I raised an eyebrow, "No, I'm just used to having something to shoot back with."  
  
"Right," he said disbelievingly, turning back to the group pouring over the finance statements of our favourite Islamic Jihad group.  
  
I once again felt the need to drag out my resume and highlight my most kick- ass-Marine achievements. No-one would take me seriously. Spooks are jerks.  
  
Clay leant back in his chair and threw his tie across the table, "We're getting nowhere with this. James, what else did you dig up from Fort Meade?"  
  
"Well..." he paused, glancing at me, "Um, what's the go on clearance Sir?"  
  
You know, I could understand if I was blonde and ditzy like Harm's girlfriends, but honestly. The son of a bitch.  
  
"We're all cleared for anything you can get your hands on," Webb replied, meeting my gaze for a second with a pleading look.  
  
I just glared back.  
  
"Right, well, the NSA seem to think it's possible Fah'd's friends have acquired nuclear capabilities, although they're decoding software for whatever coding those guys are using for their secure e-mail is still in the developmental stages. So, they say they can't be sure and the computer might be generating crap. Also, the code words could mean anything, these guys aren't going around talking about a huge secret project in plain words. I think it's a serious possibility and we should take it that way. The mere threat of a nuclear attack means we have to be on our toes and we have to be ready..."  
  
They got into a heated debate over whether it was actually possible our fundamentalist friends had acquired weapons of a nuclear nature. Emil "Jerk" Jackson launched into an explanation of geography which required a lot of table space. A stack of boring looking papers filled with numbers were pushed in my direction. It reminded me an awful lot of the JAG budget, therefore immediately gained my contempt.  
  
"See, there is no way they would've been able to get weapons over the border between Uzbekistan and Afghanistan," Jackson continued. I didn't bother telling him that Uzbekistan and Afghanistan didn't actually share a border so of course they'd find that part difficult.  
  
Yawning, the papers in front of me rustled slightly as the heating kicked in with a waft of warm air. Disinterestedly scanning the pages, I noticed that whatever genius had printed the records had transactions catalogued by amount not date. Scanning down the list of dates, a few appeared more than others- 04/05/04, 04/11/04, 04/18/04, 04/25/04. Grabbing a few highlighters, I proceeded to highlight all those dates, revealing that the amounts were always being transferred to the same 32 accounts. The sums were small enough not to warrant notice, but large enough to be useful. Next step was figuring out where all the money was.  
  
"Hey James," I interrupted, not really caring that it was rude. They were still arguing over the plausibility of nuclear weapons anyway.  
  
"Yeah?" he asked, pushing his glasses up his nose wearily.  
  
"Have you got these things electronically? I mean, I've got amounts and account numbers and bank names but not branches for where all the money's going."  
  
"What do you mean?" he asked, "There's no pattern there, we've looked."  
  
"Yeah well, look again," I snapped, tossing him the stack of paper I was working on.  
  
He glanced over it for a second, "Yeah, so they do their banking on the same day of the week, big deal."  
  
"Let me see that," Jackson asked, his finance background evident. After glancing at it for a second he looked up at me, "Got a history with this sort of thing Colonel?"  
  
"I've seen bank records before. They're usually done by date, but some genius at Fort Meade printed these according to the amount transferred."  
  
"Because we figured it would be a large amount of money," Princeton muttered.  
  
"What, you actually thought they'd transfer several million dollars in a lump sum?" I asked with a raised eyebrow.  
  
Jackson grinned, "That would be too suspicious. What you're looking for is there Colonel, give me that folder at the bottom."  
  
I slid the unmarked manila folder down the length of the table.  
  
"Branch number 50678PAR," Jackson read from the highlighted sheets then ran his fingers along the pages in the open folder, "What do you know, our friends still have bank accounts in Paraguay. That's Concepcion... 50325COL. Columbia. 20456IND. Jakarta. 20893TUR. Istanbul. 14599UKG. London. 13567FRA. Strasbourg..." he continued reading until all 32 accounts were revealed. About halfway through I told him to stop and told Clay to get a map so we could plot the points.  
  
"Now I'm thinking," he muttered, following my orders and rolling his eyes at the reactions of Princeton and James when I took control of the group. I hid a smile: never mess with a Marine boys.  
  
Two hours later we had a total amount of money of around US$5 million scattered in various bank accounts across the globe, all transferred within the same month.  
  
"Don't look now," Jackson said to James slyly, "But that looks like a pattern to me."  
  
"Now can anyone get the records for all of these accounts?" I asked, "Because we need to see where the money went from there."  
  
James hurried off to call the NSA, Princeton wandered over the window, Clay sipped another cup of coffee and Jackson looked at me inquiringly.  
  
"What?"  
  
"You're not as stupid as I thought."  
  
"Yeah well, never send a man to a woman's job," I stared back at him without blinking, "You were doing everything ass-backwards. Who looks at transactions by amount anyway?"  
  
He just stared incredulously.  
  
Spooks are jerks.  
  
Friday had been uneventful so far, although I hadn't slept in over 24 hours and my mind was starting to fog up. Leaning back against the window, I turned to find Hawkes staring at me.  
  
"What?"  
  
"You look thoughtful."  
  
I laughed, "I feel green actually."  
  
"Well you're that too."  
  
"Just reflecting on what kind of week it's been."  
  
"And?"  
  
"I've had better."  
  
"I know the feeling."  
  
The aircraft shook a little and my stomach protested vehemently.  
  
"Hey listen, I'm going to walk around for a bit," I told him, "It might make me feel a little better."  
  
"Sure thing, I was thinking about sleeping for a while anyway."  
  
I nodded and left my seat, wandering over to the door on the rear left of the fuselage and peering out into the darkness around us. We were flying over the ocean, so there really was nothing interesting to see. Over the sound of the aircraft's engines, I didn't hear the movement next to me, nor did I notice the woman beside me until the fifth mystery member of our team tapped incessantly on my shoulder.  
  
"Oh, I'm sorry," I yelled a bit, to be heard over the noise. How anyone could sleep in one of these things was beyond me.  
  
"Yeah," Phillipa Bryant rolled her eyes at me, "Could I get a look for a moment? I think I'm going to be sick."  
  
I laughed and nodded, stepping backward, "I'm familiar with the feeling."  
  
"You're Mackenzie right," she said after a moment, "The Marine?"  
  
"That's me."  
  
"Phil," she offered a hand. She'd shown up in the early hours of the morning, talked to Clay for half an hour and boarded the plane with us three hours ago.  
  
"Mac," I shook her hand.  
  
She grinned, "I was beginning to think I was the only one with a nickname like that."  
  
I shrugged, "That Marines'll do that to you."  
  
"I wouldn't know."  
  
"You're CIA?"  
  
"Affirmative."  
  
"You the last minute miracle or something?"  
  
"Me?" she shook her head, laughing mirthlessly, "I had to talk my way onto this thing."  
  
I smiled, "I thought I was the only one."  
  
"Yeah, I heard some stories about you and Clay."  
  
"Guilty as charged for the most part."  
  
"So you're the lawyer he took down to Paraguay?"  
  
I flinched a little at her nonchalant tone, but reminded myself that Paraguay probably represented an average day on the job for her, "Guilty again."  
  
"I read the reports, the names were mostly blanked out and a lot of stuff was cut out, but from what I read, you did a good thing down there."  
  
I stared at her for a long moment.  
  
"I earned my place here," she announced finally. The silence had been awkward, if not silent... the engines continued to drone in the background, "So did you."  
  
"You're the only one here who thinks so."  
  
"We'll stick together then."  
  
I studied her face for a second. She was genuine and very un-spooky.  
  
"What's your story?" I queried.  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"Well, from the way you talk to Webb, you're old-school CIA, yet he didn't want to bring you in on this and you don't act like an agent."  
  
"You mean I actually show a few isolated scraps of humanity at times?"  
  
"I was going to say you sound like you have moral fibre, but anyway."  
  
She shrugged, "I was brought up to believe in a set of values. Friendship above all else, then truth, justice, honour, loyalty... they say the ones with values never survive in this business," she paused, "Which is why Webb didn't want to bring me. We just have a history. It goes back a long way. Long story."  
  
"We have a few more hours up here yet, and I don't know about you," I hollered, "But I don't think I'll be able to sleep with all this noise."  
  
She laughed, "Right. You want to know the story?"  
  
"I do."  
  
"Sit down."  
  
I complied and she collapsed next to me.  
  
"Firstly, before you ask, we've never slept together."  
  
I raised an eyebrow.  
  
"We were partners."  
  
"Ah, and you got that all the time?"  
  
"The only people that didn't think we were together were us."  
  
"Been there."  
  
"Rabb?"  
  
I rolled my eyes, "Who else?"  
  
"Right. Anyway, we were the best. Our networks never leaked. Our people never talked. Out assets were unfailingly loyal. We picked good people."  
  
"I didn't know the CIA did the partner thing?"  
  
She shrugged, "It doesn't usually. But we brought out the best in each other. Kershy, way back when he was an ickle station chief, knew that. Ran us together every time."  
  
"So what happened?"  
  
"I made a bad call which compromised the whole operation, got one of our assets killed. Clay, he never forgave me."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"He was in love with her."  
  
I didn't reply and gave her the time she needed to continue, "It was our first op that went sour. Our last too," she grinned wryly, "I got reprimanded, he got promoted. And so it goes."  
  
"There's more to it than that."  
  
She shook her head, "It'd take all day. There were other things involved... we'd worked together for five years at that point. When you've known someone that long you have a history. Reactions aren't always clear cut and rational."  
  
I nodded. I knew that one firsthand.  
  
"So what about you? Why are you here?" she answered her own question, "Wait, you're bailing Rabb out right?"  
  
I contemplated my answer, "He's my best friend. It's what we do."  
  
"What? Run off with the CIA and almost get killed for each other?"  
  
I tilted my head to one side. That was the essence of it after all, "I guess."  
  
"You two must be interesting lawyers."  
  
"You have no idea."  
  
"So you're hauling your ass halfway across the globe to drag his ass out of trouble, but you're with Clay?"  
  
"You would have no idea how many people react that way."  
  
"Can you blame them?"  
  
I raised my hands in a shrug, "Like you said, when you've known someone a long time there are other things involved than just the immediate past."  
  
"He rescued you in Paraguay didn't he?"  
  
She was smart. No doubt those names had been blacked out too.  
  
I nodded, "And I never got to thank him."  
  
"Don't get too involved here Mac," she warned, "This business can be harsh when it comes to love."  
  
I started at her.  
  
"Who said I was in love with him?"  
  
She just stood up and wandered over to the window, "I've been there before."  
  
I followed her, "And?"  
  
When she spoke her voice was even and toneless and I immediately knew she'd closed herself off, "Let's say I wouldn't recommend it."  
  
"How'd we score such bad weather anyway?" she commented idly as the Hercules descended suddenly, both of us grasping around for something to hold onto.  
  
"Hey ladies," Webb called, walking down the aisle, "Enjoying the trip?" he smirked.  
  
"Clay you know I hate flying," Phil glared, looking nauseous.  
  
"Well sit down, strap yourselves and enjoy the ride. The loadmaster just asked me to tell you things are about to get bumpy."  
  
"Shit," she swore, flopping down in a seat and pulling the belt over her hips.  
  
"My thoughts exactly," I echoed, sitting beside her and swallowing my stomach.  
  
Webb just stood there looking at the pair of us for a second.  
  
"I should've known you two would get along," he shouted, lightening illuminating the clouds outside the window.  
  
"We have a lot in common," I told him.  
  
Phil nodded, "More than you might think."

* * *


	7. CHAPTER4: The Perfect Mess

**_"CHAPTER FOUR: The Perfect Mess"_**

* * *

1200 ZULU (1500 LOCAL)

Al Udeid Air Base

QATAR  
  
An hour after we landed at Al-Udeid, where Webb had organised to operate from, we were all gathered around a large plastic table in one of the bases unused rooms. James and Princeton were presently hauling electronic equipment out of boxes and complaining about the lack of power outlets in the room. Ryan was sitting in a chair, his feet on the table with his eyes closed, trying to be asleep. Phil was pacing up and down. She'd been hyperactive since we set foot on land. I was looking for another coffee, the lack of sleep beginning to make my eyelids heavy. Emil Jackson and Petty Officer Mohammed were chatting about sport. I wasn't quite sure how anyone could manage to make small talk after the day we'd had, but apparently, they were up to the task.  
  
Changing time zones had thrown me off a bit. All I wanted to do was crawl into a bed and sleep until next week, but Webb had other ideas. As soon as James and Princeton stopped shuffling computers around, he called everyone to the table and sat down.  
  
"Right, we're going to start as soon as possible. One day here in Qatar to adjust to the time zone, then we head to Kabul. As soon as we're in Afghanistan, you assume your identities and roles, and its all systems go. Before then, we need to get some stuff cleared up, and you all have personal things to attend to. That can be done tomorrow. Today, we're going to learn who you guys are and brief you on where you're going, what you'll be doing and why you're going there."  
  
"You're going to tell us why we're going somewhere?" Ryan asked, opening one eye, "Woah, the CIA is getting sloppy with it's 'say nothing to frustrate the hell out of everyone policy'."  
  
There's that reason the Marines and the FBI share Quantico.  
  
"We give information on a need-to-know basis. Since you'll be out there, we don't want you to go in blind. There are some things you need to know."  
  
The cop shrugged and closed his eyes again.  
  
I looked around the group as Mohammed nodded, Jackson bowed his head once in agreement, Ryan continued to pretend to sleep and Phil continued to pace.  
  
Webb turned to her, "Would you desist?"  
  
She swallowed a remark, and said, "Do I have do?"  
  
"You know it annoys the hell out of me when you do that."  
  
"Some things never change," she muttered as she took a seat next to me, reaching for the pen in front of me and tapping it against the table idly.  
  
"No," he answered, "You're right."  
  
There was a brief and awkward pause, accompanied by the soft tap-tap-tap of the pen against the table.  
  
"Right, let's get back to it then," Webb announced finally, tearing his eyes away from Phil and pulling a manila folder in front of him, "The place you'll all be living in for the next few months or so is called Aylaq-i- Situn. It's a small Afghan village, just inside the border of Afghanistan and Pakistan and deep in the Hindu Kush. The terrain is mountainous to say the least, but I think you'll enjoy the place. It's not my first choice for a holiday destination, but it's quiet. Aylaq-I-Situn is run by a local warlord, Hashim al-Farrah. There are rumours this guy is very happily involved with several anti-America jihad groups, which means we're onto him. Also, he's very closely involved with several people over the border in Pakistan and some of the ex-USSR Republics in the area, so the CIA is all ears for any evidence this guy is doing shady deals with Russia."  
  
"Explain," Mohammed commanded.  
  
"There's a lot of ex-KGB walking around unemployed. There's a lot of Soviet nukes lying around unaccounted for. The KGB knew everything that went on in Soviet Russia. If someone decides that a few million would be nice in their account, all they have to do is reveal the location of one of those unaccounted for nukes and they're sitting pretty for retirement. Lord knows in today's world there are enough groups willing to bid for a weapon like that."  
  
"So you think this al-Farrah guy is the middle-man for Fah'd and his nuke?" I asked.  
  
"Something like that."  
  
"Woah, woah, woah. Backtrack a little here Webb, what are we talking about now?" Phil asked, "That Paraguay stuff was filled with blanks and I'm sure a lot of people here haven't even read the reports."  
  
Webb sighed, "Ok. A few months ago, a CIA operation in Paraguay discovered that a terrorist by the name of Sadik Fah'd had obtained cruise missiles to use in attacks against Americans. Luckily, the missiles were destroyed, but Fah'd escaped. Just a few days ago, we intercepted a few guys working for a charity that was backing Fah'd and his extremist friends. They confessed that some of the diamonds that were being used to buy the missiles in Paraguay and as general cash for the terrorist group were missing. That is, our people in Paraguay didn't take all the cash. Due to a talented operative, we were able to establish that a large amount of money had recently moved though this charities accounts to other organization. Eventually we located $5 million US dollars in a European bank."  
  
The group was listening intently as Webb sucked in a breath, "We tried to lock the account, but diplomatic channels were working slowly, and the money was withdrawn before anything happened."  
  
"Five million was drawn all at once?" Ryan raised an eyebrow, "Because I'm assuming it was cash not a cheque."  
  
Webb nodded, "It was cash. The money was simultaneously removed all over Europe at 0900 GMT while we were up in the air. The new situation with borders in Europe makes things awfully convenient for terrorists and people who don't want to be seen. A few of the men who made the withdrawals were under our surveillance and the surveillance of local authorities, but they've all disappeared."  
  
"Your people lost a whole bunch of terrorists walking around with their share of 5 million dollars?" I queried incredulously.  
  
"These things aren't as easy as they look," was the calculated response, "We have very little jurisdiction in Europe. You're a lawyer, you know how it is. Anyway, the 5 million is missing. Fah'd is missing, presumed to be lurking around in Iran and Afghanistan, although our network in the area is weak at best. We know that Fah'd knows our player in Afghanistan, al- Farrah. They met a few months before Paraguay and exchanged an unknown amount of money for a reason no-one knows."  
  
He paused, "Coincidentally, al-Farrah contacted some of the local farmers growing opium. A few days later, those farmers happened to talk to a few friends in South America a few days later."  
  
"Are you saying this guy is involved with Paraguay?" Phil inquired, her eyes guarded but her tone slightly enthusiastic.  
  
"It's possible. The links are tenuous and its totally circumstantial, but bear it in mind while you're in there. Al-Farrah has links to weapons dealers, Russians, terrorists, poppy-seed farmers... hell, a whole lot of people he shouldn't have contacts with."  
  
"That doesn't make sense," I interrupted, "Afghans hate the Russians."  
  
"The enemy of my enemy is my friend?" he suggested.  
  
I agreed, "Makes sense, especially if their going to get their hands on nuclear capabilities."  
  
"All that aside, al-Farrah has two of our aviators as hostages, which brings to light a rather embarrassing leak in the CIA's network. We've been watching this guy for a while. A lot of interesting people have passed through his village of late. After his latest, we're convinced he's up to something, hence you guys. Now, this mission has two primary objectives, and these are in order of importance: One, find our leak and plug it. Two, get Rabb and Graham the hell out of there. I mean that, the first and foremost priority is locating the leak. Any gaps in our intel network could be potentially fatal, for you and for Americans everywhere."  
  
The room was silent for a moment. Much as it annoyed me he put finding the leak above finding Harm, I knew he was right and swallowed my argument.  
  
"Due to this leak, you go in assuming you can trust no-one. I'll give you a list of CIA operatives in the region. Check them all out thoroughly, but don't let on who you're working for. You guys are a team, so rely on each other for whatever you need. You can't afford to trust anyone else. As for our leak, we're looking for someone relatively influential in both our network and al-Farrah's, someone who knew what Rabb and Graham were doing the night they were shot down."  
  
"Doesn't that narrow it down a bit?" Hawkes asked.  
  
"Anyone could have been listening in on any of the agents who knew about that mission," James pointed out.  
  
"Exactly," Webb continued, "You have to assume that each and every one of those agents is a traitor. We need it fixed... before anything else goes wrong."  
  
There was another pause while Webb took a sip from his mug, "Right, let's get onto cover stories. I don't need to tell you that it is vitally important your covers are not blown while you're in the field. Stick to your stories people, I don't want to be the one telling your mother you're not coming home. Ok, Jackson, we'll start with you. Your name is Jahan Mohammed. You're a waiter and you work at the local tea-shop... and don't scowl at me like that. You'll be running my agents in the field and you need a position from where you can contact them. If they stop in for a cup of tea every now and then, it will hardly be suspicious."  
  
"No sir," he answered with a grin.  
  
"Ok. Phil..." she sat up straight and listened intently at the sound of her name. By the look on her face I could see she'd switched to professional spy mode, "You're Jackson's wife."  
  
"Score," Jackson muttered.  
  
Phil glared and the rest of the group laughed. I rolled my eyes with a smile.  
  
"Yeah, she's too good for you Jackson," Webb jibed, continuing, "Mahin Mohammed, a teacher in the next village. That works because the next village happens to be halfway between this guy al-Farrah's stronghold and Faiz'a's village. Faiz'a is working for us. Some of his men will meet you at the school every now and then, or send messages with their children. You'll be my main source of information running, understood?"  
  
"Yes Sir."  
  
"Also, you and Jackson, set up an intel network like you've been trained. That's your job. It's also your job to manage and collect the intel from these guys," he pointed to Ryan, Mohammed and I, "You're my leaders, don't screw up."  
  
They both nodded.  
  
"You two will be flown into Kabul the day after tomorrow. From there, you can travel up to the village on your own. The tea-shop in question is a favourite of ours. It's going to be attacked and a waiter is going to die in the next few days. That means they'll be looking for staff."  
  
"Enter me stage left," Jackson completed the thought.  
  
"Phil your job is already set up thanks to our friend Faiz'a. You just rock up to work everyday."  
  
"What, by donkey?" she asked.  
  
"Something like that. Ryan?"  
  
The dozing cop immediately opened his eyes and sat forward in his chair.  
  
"You are going to ask for work as a stable-hand for al-Farrah. Apparently they need hands, and you've got experience with horses. Name is Mustafa Kumar. Your from Peshwar, looking for work. As a stable-hand you'll get to talk with a lot of al-Farrah's men, get a feel for the place. The basic deal is keep your eyes and ears open and report anything and everything to Jackson and Phil. You're going to travel to Kabul with a group of Pakistanis from Peshawar. From there, you'll head up to the mountains with a local escort. Once you get there, hang around town for a few days and drop in for some tea. Phil will point you in the right direction from there. Once your attain employment, you'll be inside the fort and ready to roll."  
  
"And if I'm not employed?"  
  
"You will be. If not, well we can always eliminate the competition."  
  
Ryan nodded, "Yes Sir."  
  
"Mohammed. You're a doctor?"  
  
"Yes Sir."  
  
"Guess what, you're now a hakim looking for work. You fly in with Phil and Jackson, but hang around Kabul a couple of days. I don't want too many people arriving at once. When you get there, you'll want some tea. You'll also want to know if there's any place to set up a business. That's what you're going to do, set up a surgery and work from there. People will come to you for all kinds of health problems and they have a funny habit of telling their doctors things doctors shouldn't know."  
  
"I have a feeling I love tea right?"  
  
"No, but Sohail Da'ah does. That's your name by the way."  
  
"Right, Doctor Da'ah," Mohammed joked, accepting the file Webb slid to him between two fingers and flipping through it after Webb moved on.  
  
"And Mac."  
  
The way he said that scared me. I knew there was a reason I hated working with that man. I waited for my cover story. Phil looked at me, noting my reaction with amusement.  
  
"Congratulations," Webb announced, "You're getting married."  
  
"I beg you pardon?" I interjected, surprised.  
  
"Sara al-Farrah," he tossed me my file as he had everyone else, "Haytham al- Farrah's American wife, or you will be."  
  
"I have to convince the guy to marry me?"  
  
"No, it won't take much convincing. You're the daughter of a very rich, very influential Westerner working in Iran. He's going to meet with your 'father' today, looking for a business deal I told him to set up. Your dear dad is going to say no unless Haytham agrees to marry you."  
  
"Nice father," I muttered under my breath.  
  
"Haytham is going to say yes, because he likes his CIA paychecks. You'll fly into Iran while the others move into Afghanistan to meet al-Farrah. The whole thing might take a few weeks, but you'll be married before the end of the month. From there on in, you're his wife and you're in an excellent position to gather intelligence. Haytham is al-Farrah's son. Junior lives with his father inside the fort, so you'll be with him. As his wife, you'll be the guest of the hour among the ladies so listen for any gossip. Women are women no matter what head-dress they're wearing."  
  
Next to me, Phil snorted.  
  
"Your cover is the hardest, but it's the best. Any questions?" he asked me.  
  
"Only one: do I have to be pregnant this time?"  
  
Webb rolled his eyes and addressed the group, "Read your stories people, and learn your family history, relatives, education, that kind of thing. You've all been assigned rooms with the other personnel, but I don't want to see anyone in bed before the sun goes down. You've got to get this time zone thing right quickly. And don't talk to any of the military guys around here. They may be on our side, but they don't need to know who you are or where you're going, understood?"  
  
There were nods and mumbled yeses around the table.  
  
"Right, read the files, learn your stuff, get some rest. We have work to do tomorrow. Get the hell out of here people."  
  
The sound of chairs scraping against the floor and people moving echoed in the small room with bare and pale walls.  
  
"Mac."  
  
I turned at the sound of my name.  
  
Webb met my eyes, "I'd like to speak with you. Could you wait behind?"  
  
James was the only one left in the room, and was lurking under the doorframe.  
  
"Alone," he added for the analysts benefit, "And shut the door would you?"  
  
"Sir," James nodded and left.  
  
We stood staring at each other in silence for a minute, before a B-2H landed, making the ground shake a little and the windows rattle, effectively destroying the awkwardness of the situation.  
  
"I've missed you," he offered, stepping towards me.  
  
I laughed, "I miss me too."  
  
"You Ok?"  
  
"Considering I haven't slept in, oh, about 24 hours and I'm going to be getting married to a stranger in a few days, yeah, I'm fine."  
  
"I wanted to tell you, you're leaving for Iran tomorrow. The others won't fly until the day after, but I wanted you to meet your father in Iran and have a chat to him about Fah'd. You have to meet Haytham al-Farrah too."  
  
"Ok, what time?"  
  
"Early," he confessed, "I tried to get a military transport, but nothing is going to Iran obviously, and since we're CIA it's always hard. You have to fly commercial, which is probably best. You're flying to Heathrow first from Doha, then catching a connection to Tehran from where your father will pick you up."  
  
"Who is this father of mine?"  
  
"Thomas Bolden, and American businessman involved in oil. He works in Iran and Saudi Arabia."  
  
"An agent of course?"  
  
"And a trusted friend," he assured me.  
  
"Ok," I pressed my lips together, "Do you have clothes and things or will I have to shop around a bit? I'll need something as soon as I get of the plane in Iran of course."  
  
"Someone from the embassy will meet you at Heathrow."  
  
"Thanks."  
  
"Hey listen, I'm sorry the guys were such jerks. I told them about what you did in Paraguay and on numerous other occasions, but you know how it is sometimes..." he trailed off and reached for my hand.  
  
"Yeah, spooks are jerks," I teased, smiling.  
  
"Really?" he asked, trying to look hurt.  
  
"Well maybe not all spooks," I conceded, allowing him to pull me into an embrace.  
  
"I need some sanity in my world Sarah," he murmured into my hair.  
  
"Hey, are you Ok?" I pulled back to study his face, but he avoided my eyes.  
  
"The answer to that is that I am Ok because I have to be."  
  
"Does Paraguay... is it hard to talk about like that?"  
  
"Hell you've had the nightmares."  
  
I nodded, "But in the end they're just nightmares."  
  
He agreed in a low voice, "But with this Fah'd thing happening, and I'm not quite sure I'm ready to believe al-Farrah isn't involved, I just, it's going to hang over every aspect of this operation and I don't want to have to draw those parallels."  
  
"Hey," I touched his face, "Hey look at me."  
  
He complied rather reluctantly, and I swallowed suddenly, surprised by the unguarded pain in his glassy eyes. He blinked a few times but didn't look away.  
  
"This isn't going to be like that."  
  
"How do you know?"  
  
"Because I have faith."  
  
"In what? What is there to believe in in this world?"  
  
"Don't talk like that," I whispered, almost choking at the defeated tone his words took.  
  
"Why not? I think you better prepare yourself for the fact that there are a lot of unseen evils in this world and that we can't fight them all. No matter what, there are going to be people who hate us. People who want to put nukes into our major cities and kill our children. This operation isn't going to be successful," his voice was even and unemotional, "This is going to be another screw-up like Paraguay. Rabb and Graham are probably dead already. I'm sending you into danger again, this time when I know it will probably get you killed. Phil, despite everything that's happened, is still a friend of mine, and I'm sending her off on a suicide mission too. That team, they're all good men, with families. And if Fah'd gets that nuke? Well I'm not quite sure I could live with myself if this thing went that sour."  
  
"That won't happen."  
  
"How can you say that? How can you have so much faith in the good of this world after everything that's happened to you?"  
  
I shrugged, "I don't know. All I know is that when I watched those towers collapse I thought the world had changed, but then I realised something. The world doesn't change. There are different times of trouble and different people, but the basic human struggle is always the same. And you know, they don't remember terrorist attacks in Babylon, or dig up evidence of it from Assyria. History, in its true form, happens everyday. Archaeologists dig up artefacts and preserved bodies and documents, not terrorism. And you know, when I saw those pictures, of the firemen going in even when they knew it was dangerous, and of people covered in dust and debris helping others walk because they couldn't do it alone I realised that the greatest evil brings out the best humanity has to offer. That gave me hope. Whenever this War on Terror crap starts getting too much to deal with I think about those two people and that photograph. So that's how I know we'll do this- because it can bring out the best in us too."  
  
"You honestly believe we'll pull this off? Why?"  
  
"Because I have faith. Faith in myself to do things right. Faith in Harm to not be dead. Faith in you do run this properly. Faith in our team. And because we have a job to do. Because there are people in America right now taking their kids to day care and saying goodnight to their partners. You and I, we do it in different ways, I put on a uniform, you say things are classified, but we're here because we have a job to do and that job is to keep those people in America safe. I have faith that we can do that too."  
  
"You amaze me," he said, leaning in to touch his lips to mine.  
  
"And inspire me."  
  
Another kiss.  
  
"And you know, for a Marine, you're a pretty good anchor."  
  
"See when things are like this, I know exactly what we're fighting for."  
  
He tightened his hold on me and I leant my head on his shoulder, "I don't know what I'd do if I lost you."  
  
"You won't lose me."  
  
"You don't know that."  
  
"I'm coming home. I have to."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"I want to see the Superbowl."  
  
He laughed softly, the afternoon sunlight settling in through the window and casting shadows across the room.  
  
"My life makes sense when I'm with you Sarah."  
  
I sighed and pulled back a little, leaning against the table, "Will you promise me you wouldn't talk like that again?"  
  
"Like what?"  
  
"The defeatist dogma and pessimist's view of the world?"  
  
He swallowed, "It's just sometimes, since Paraguay, nothing... everything seems out of control."  
  
"It is," I murmured, leaning up to him once more, "We live in a rainbow of chaos and life is the perfect mess."

* * *

1400 ZULU (1700 LOCAL)

Al Udeid Air Base  
  
QATAR  
  
I found Phil collapsed on the top bunk of the room we were sharing, having claimed it for her own, studiously studying her cover.  
  
"Hey," she said as I entered the room, "Sara."  
  
"Hey yourself Mahin. Checking out your cover story?"  
  
"Yeah, it's pretty easy. Yours?"  
  
"I'm not sure I like the idea of Haytham al-Farrah being my husband, but at least I don't have to wear that ridiculous stomach again."  
  
"Paraguay?"  
  
I nodded, "I swear, it almost cured me of pregnancy for life."  
  
"Almost?'  
  
I smiled, "I don't think you'd ever turn me off completely."  
  
"You're full of surprises."  
  
"What?"  
  
"I've never heard someone who's with a spy talk about having kids."  
  
"Yeah well, you've thought about it haven't you?"  
  
"Thought, but you know how it is... I have a career and..."  
  
"And you need the right person at the right time."  
  
"Do you ever wonder if you had the right person but the timing was all wrong?"  
  
I swallowed nervously, "Every day."  
  
"Anyway, I heard you ship out a day early."  
  
"Yeah, apparently it's an early start for me. I've got a BA flight to Heathrow then a connection to Tehran."  
  
"I suppose you'll be calling it a day then?"  
  
I shook my head, "With all this nervous energy I doubt I'll be able to sleep, no matter how exhausted I am."  
  
Phil grinned, "Nervous energy? Now that is a concept I'm familiar with."  
  
"You too?"  
  
"Oh always. Before I go in country, I can't sit still."  
  
"Hence the percussion in the brief."  
  
"Yeah. That's one of the ways I deal with it."  
  
"Really? I run until I can't think anymore."  
  
"I do that too."  
  
"I don't suppose you want to join me then?"  
  
"Nah," she shook her head, but slid down to the floor, "Because the paperwork is so much more interesting."  
  
"Does that mean you're coming?"  
  
"Indeed it does Colonel."

* * *

1415 ZULU (1715 LOCAL)

Al Udeid Air Base  
  
QATAR  
  
Being on an Air Base during a war, there's usually not a whole lot of places you can run, so Phil and I headed to the gym and in an unanimous decision, decided to wear out the Air Force's treadmills.  
  
"So why did you join the CIA?" I asked her.  
  
"Why did you join the Marines?"  
  
I shrugged, "I needed a bit of direction in my life and my uncle suggested it. Answer my question."  
  
"It's complicated. I left home and went to university at Georgetown, but... it didn't work for me. I finished my degree, walked into the CIA and asked for a job. It was a combination of wanting to serve my country, and boredom."  
  
"And you ended up with Webb how?"  
  
"Accident."  
  
"Isn't everything when Webb's involved?"  
  
She laughed and shook her head, "Nothing ever goes according to plan, but... well to be honest we ran into each other, literally, when he was undercover in Tel Aviv. I was working from the embassy at the time, and together we managed to pull together enough intel to put a suicide bombing group out of action."  
  
"Isn't that the job of the Mossad?"  
  
"Yeah, but it was an anti-America group too."  
  
"Kind of like what we're up against now."  
  
"I guess. After that, we just worked together on everything. He did a few independent things for a while, but when Kershaw and I were transferred to Iraq, working in the consulate, he turned up. Every transfer after that, we were moved together."  
  
"Someone was impressed with your teamwork."  
  
"We work well together. I'm a bit passionate sometimes, too eager to act on what we know. He's level-headed and brutally rational about things. Our styles compliment each other. Isn't that what makes partnerships work?"  
  
"Yeah I guess."  
  
"So this Rabb guy..."  
  
"Phil," I warned.  
  
"No, you guys have worked together for how long?"  
  
"Going on eight years."  
  
"I see a history there."  
  
"Harm and I's history would take all night."  
  
"Right, where'd you meet?"  
  
I didn't reply, "In the Whitehouse rose garden."  
  
She didn't reply. When I turned to see the look on her face, she had one eyebrow raised and was staring incredulously.  
  
"Sounds like some stupid romance movie I know. If only you knew... we were assigned to investigate the theft of the Declaration of Independence. The thief was my uncle."  
  
"Crazy life events just follow you around don't they?"  
  
Rolling my eyes, I replied, "You wouldn't believe me if I told you half of it."  
  
"I do unbelievable things for a living."  
  
"You've been in the CIA how long?"  
  
"Oh, going on," she did the math in her head, "12 years."  
  
"I'm sure you've got some interesting battle stories."  
  
"I've had my days. You ready to quit here?"  
  
"Yeah, I guess."  
  
She stepped onto the floor and grabbed a water-bottle, downing half its contents in one mouthful.  
  
"What happened with you and Clay?" I asked, following her.  
  
"Feel threatened by me or something?"  
  
"To be honest I think everybody knows that Clay and I are,,," I raised my hand in question, "Open to threats."  
  
"You mean you're not a done deal?"  
  
"I didn't say that. I just... well you know as well as I do that things can change."  
  
"They can. But the past can't. What happened? He fell in love with an asset, and she betrayed him, or so I thought. The actual problem was her sister, who was a spy for the other side. The asset lived with a spy for the enemy, but I didn't figure that out until I'd already shot her. Her sister pulled a weapon on me and Clay figured out what had happened, but nearly let her shoot me when he saw what I did to his asset," she paused, "I made a bad call. I screwed up and our network was compromised because it. After that he didn't want to work with me anymore. That's never going to change."  
  
"Don't look now, but you're working together," I pointed out.  
  
"I had to beg him to let me do this."  
  
"So did I," I reminded her, "Listen, you may have made a mistake, but he did too. Someone once told me that love and this business don't mix."  
  
"And being in love with your assets and this business sure as hell doesn't mix, but it was still my mistake. Someone innocent ended up dead and an operation ended up blown because I screwed up. I can live with it now. It's just, he won't forgive me, and I think the point is that you have nothing to worry about in the way of threats from this spook."  
  
"That's not what I was asking."  
  
"What were you asking then?"  
  
"Well that's not why I asked."  
  
"I know."  
  
"Are you in love with him?"  
  
She turned to stare at me, "Just like you love your partner."  
  
"Then... "  
  
"Then what? I am a threat?"  
  
"No. I mean... I suppose you know as well as I do that sometimes partners don't love you back."  
  
"I really thought he did for a while back before it happened. But after that, there really was no question in my mind."  
  
I nodded, "I've been there."  
  
"Is that why you're with Clay?"  
  
"No! I mean, everyone thinks that we're not together for any of the right reasons but that's not true. I can talk to him. He makes me happy."  
  
"And this partner of yours?"  
  
"Is..." I searched for words, "My best friend in the entire world, but we're not in a good place of late. Hell, I don't know if we ever have been. He's just so..."  
  
"Full of mixed messages? Deathly afraid of commitment? Terrified of his own feelings? Arrogant? Overly proud?"  
  
"All of the above."  
  
"You should've met Clayton Webb 10 years ago."  
  
"After that description I'm kind of glad I didn't."  
  
She snickered, "In some ways my life would've been a lot easier, but in others..."  
  
"It wouldn't be the same."  
  
She shook her head.  
  
"You know I think you're the first person I'm on the same page with when it comes to this," she stated finally, "A lot of people tell me I love him, but not a lot of them get it when I say it never would've worked between us."  
  
Distracted by her choice of words, I didn't reply for a moment.  
  
"There's only one problem--it's never going to work out between us because we both want to be on top and that's physically and emotionally impossible..."  
  
"Do you really think that?" I finally turned to question her.  
  
"Oh in another time and place for sure, but not in this life."  
  
"I know what you mean."  
  
"Let's get back, you need to sleep and rumour has it the food disappears fast around here."  
  
"It's probably nothing to rush back for anyway."  
  
"Can't be worse than Langley."  
  
"You know, I'm inclined to agree with you."  
  
"Come on, I'll race you."  
  
"I'll win."  
  
"You may be a Marine, but I have an ulterior motive."  
  
"You're a spook, why does that not surprise me?"  
  
She broke into a sprint without warning and called over her shoulder, "I want the first shower."  
  
"Hey, that's cheating," I protested.  
  
"You can't cheat in this business," was her answer.

* * *


End file.
